The sun lingered above the edge of the horizon as Arturo, Cal, and I finally made our way back to Ironmoor. The Grass Hound gashes littering my body had all stitched themselves closed. The acid pitting on the back of my neck and hands had healed for the hundredth time that day, and my eyes had managed to cleanse themselves of all irritants. But all that insta-healing didn’t do anything to dampen the weariness and exhaustion working its way through me. I’d used a lot of Arcana and I was feeling the effects in full force. It was like someone had hollowed me out with a melon baller, leaving a barren cavern inside my chest.

I needed food, rest, and a chance to recharge my metaphorical batteries.

Still, I had to admit, Arturo’s training regimen—if you could call it that—had worked wonders. I felt noticeably stronger than I had that morning, my Kinetic Blast abilities were on lock, and now I could dismiss, summon, and reload my 1911 like a pro. I’d leveled up to Novice Gold, and I’d made out like a bandit. The Affinity Scales and coinage I’d earned were in a new leather pouch riding my hip, while the mace rode with a pile of meat and guts in the cloth sack Arturo had packed our provisions in.

It was late enough that we took the main road back to town instead of weaving through the forest as we had on the way out to the fairy ring. But even with the wider road and the lack of foliage snagging our trousers and tripping us up, it was still slow going. Arturo was not in good shape, and the day seemed to have taken even more of a toll on him than it had on me, even though he’d mostly lounged on a rock and nibbled on snacks.

The road was abandoned for the most part, although we did pass one living soul on the way back. He was headed in the opposite direction, shoulders slumped, back bent under the weight of a pack, a sword on one hip and a small hand pick on the other.

“Greetings, Arbitrator,” the man offered with a guilty flinch. He was up to something and we’d caught him in the act.

“Marcus.” The padre had a tone I hadn’t heard before. Strict. High-handed. Formal. Judge-y. “You’re not going where I think you’re going, are you?”

“No, sir. Not me. Wouldn’t even think about it.” He bowed his head and didn’t look back up. His hands were cross-hatched with gray lines and his nails were tattered and stained black.

“You know what they’ll do to you if they catch you, yes?”

Marcus nodded, eyes fixed firmly on our boots.

The padre waved him away with a reluctant sigh, and the man shuffled off as fast as he could manage.

“Who was that?” I hiked the pack higher onto my shoulder, readjusting the weight.

“No one important,” he replied, waving away the question. “Just a line picker by the name of Marcus Pekkala.” Arturo’s lips pursed into a thin line. “Poor bastard hopes no one will catch him. I can’t say as I blame him.”

“Line picker?”

Arturo nodded sagely. I’d only known him for twenty-four hours and I already wanted to strangle him. It wasn’t that he was a man of few words. He’d chewed my ear off the night before… when he was drinking. That was the key, I was starting to think. He needed liquor to loosen those lips, and unfortunately, he’d run out of booze hours ago. He was sober as a priest. But like a good, non-drunk priest.

“What’s a damned line picker?” I prodded again.

“There are mines hereabouts,” he said slowly. “Abandoned. Said to be cursed by a Rjuhella sorceress a number of years ago. But there’s still remnants of ore to be found if you’re willing to walk the line. Dangerous for a thousand reasons—not least of which is because there are monsters that call those mines home—but there is money in it if you’re lucky.”

“And if you’re unlucky?” The sun was dipping behind the trees now and we needed to pick up the pace.

He shrugged. “You wind up as dinner for a pack of Stone Spiders. That or you earn a noose to dangle from once word reaches Her Majesty’s Royal Tax Collectors. The Crown doesn’t look kindly on theft—unless they are the ones committing the crime.” He glanced at me, the look telling. “But I understand. Marcus has a family to feed. His son died, taken by the Elder Changeling. He still has a wife and five other children to consider, and the youngest is still attached to his mother’s breast. Let’s just say he can’t afford to get caught.”

***

We reached the town gates just as the outer torches were being lit to fend off the darkness settling over the land like a blanket. Any thoughts of returning to the Soul Vault were banished along with the sun. Honestly, I wanted to go tinker around with the forge and learn how to use my fancy new fabrication ingredients, but I needed rest more. And food. And to offload the reeking bag of meat and offal riding my back.

Arturo was twitchy, bug-eyed, and picking up the pace. I knew where he needed to be. Inside a bottle. The man had given me a whole day, which was probably more work than he’d done in a month. His hand shook minutely as he raised it in greeting to the guards manning the gates. The guy was a certified drunk and he was in a bad way. There was no judgement from me. Arturo hadn’t shared much about his past yet, but he was running from something nasty, or trying to drown the memory in alcohol. I didn’t want to hold him up any longer than necessary.

“Where do I sell these?” I hooked a thumb toward the harvested body parts.

“Guard Commander Arendu will take the meat. Sigge Wikstrum will take the heart, lungs, gallbladders…” He was clenching his fists so tight I was worried for his knuckles.

I knew who Arendu was, but Sigge Wikstrum was new to me.

“Sigge Wikstrum?” I asked, cocking an eyebrow.

Arturo sniffed and nodded. “Town alchemist. Condescending know-it-all who looks like the living embodiment of a grease stain. But he has the money to pay and his coin will spend as good as any other.”

“Thanks,” I said, patting him reassuringly on the shoulder. “You look like hell, Art. Why don’t you go and get yourself a plate of roast hog and a tankard of Maggie’s finest ale?” I fished out a silver coin and flicked it to him with a thumb. He snagged it from the air like a pro. “It’s on me.”

“Truly, Vigil?” I could sense the relief coming off him in waves. Not in some weird glamor-sensory-overload way, but in the ol’ fashioned, shoulder-slumping, big-sigh, eyes-relaxing-at-the-corners way. I knew how to read people, and he was doing nothing to blunt his tells.

“Yeah. Get outta here.” I waved him on. “You’ve done more than enough for me today. I’ll get all this stuff sold. Plus, I want to explore a little.” I didn’t. I was gross and grimy and hadn’t felt this tired since Fallujah, but he needed a bottle a helluva lot more than I needed him. “Same time tomorrow?”

“Of course, honored Vigil,” he said, lumbering away from me at breakneck speed. “Or maybe a little later?” he called over one shoulder.

I just grinned and shook my head as he disappeared down the street, a heat seeker headed straight for a bottle of firewater.

“He’s gonna kill himself, drinking like that,” Cal said, arms folded across his ghostly chest. “Reminds me of Dougie.”

“He does, doesn’t he?” I said, watching Arturo’s retreating back.

Dougie had been our platoon leader once upon a time. Good guy. Great big ol’ cornfed son of a bitch from Ohio who would give you the shirt off his back if you needed it. Dougie could hike for miles and miles with a .50 cal slung over one shoulder and never even need to take a breather. The guy also hit like a sledgehammer and drank like a horse. He’d been part of the initial push into Iraq, back in ’03, and had lost most of his squad after a roadside bomb placed on a bridge dropped an armored seven-ton troop carrier into a river.

He’d been on the turret above the cab, which was the only reason he walked away. Every other person in the truck drowned, trapped by squishing mud, rushing waters, and the heavy armor meant to protect those within. You didn’t walk away from something like that without survivor’s guilt. Dougie had compensated by drinking himself into liver failure most nights.

“I hope he’s okay, wherever he is,” I said.

“Yeah, me too,” Cal replied.

The guards at the gate eyed me the way they had on that first day. Warily. But instead of appearing among them as a crazed hobo-killer, I was now a victorious, gore-spattered Grass Hound slayer who was talking to himself. I was actually talking to Cal, but of course they wouldn’t know that, so I probably just looked like a lunatic. They didn’t say anything to me as I approached, though their body language spoke for them: I was terrifying, a monster in my own right, but one that was blessedly on their side.

“Where’s the commander?” I asked curtly, breaking the uneasy silence.

“In his office, Vigil.” That was all I got. That and a halberd pointed in an easterly direction.

It didn’t take me long to find Arendu. He was chatting with some twenty-something kid puffing on a curled pipe inside the guard shack. He shooed the young man away as soon as he saw me and the dripping bounty, which was slung over my aching shoulder.

“Well now, and what have we here?” He clapped his hands together like a little kid getting ready to unwrap an early birthday present. “The spoils of war, no doubt?”

It wasn’t war so much as a skirmish, but I was too tired to quibble and, as it turned out, too exhausted to haggle. I spread the meat out on the rush-strewn floor of the shack and he wheezed with delight before covering his face with his handkerchief.

“Haven’t had Essence-infused meat like this in an age, that much I can tell you.” His smile was a mile wide; he appeared genuinely excited. “I can give you good rates. The going rates.” He grimaced as he caught a good look at my face. “Scratch that. More than the going rates. For you, Vigil, the best. Always the best.”

I wasn’t exactly sure what the going rates or the best rates were, but I trusted the man enough not to royally dick me over—especially since he seemed half terrified of me. I doubted most people would try to pull one over on someone with magic powers who hunted monsters for a living. After a little more talking, I swapped the grim loot for a fat little bag of coins, though I set aside one Grass Hound filet for myself. I wasn’t entirely sure what Essence-infused meat was, or why it was in such hot demand, but I aimed to find out.

“Now, as for the rest of your haul,” the commander continued, “you’ll be wanting to sell that lot to Sigge, I reckon.” He was excited by the prospect, and I had to wonder whether he got a kickback. A cut? Or maybe a potion for his aching back?

“Just point me in the right direction and I’ll be on my way,” I said, too tired to press him on it.

“Left at the shoemaker, right at the bakery, and if you hit the tannery you’ve gone too far,” he said. “Anyone can help you if you get turned about. Sigge is well known throughout the city.” He went to slap me on the back and once again thought better of it. He’d mastered the art of interacting with me: plenty of cash, no touching. “In fact, everyone will want to help you.” He gestured toward the kid he’d shooed away earlier. He was standing with a group of friends, talking excitedly as they cast quick glances in my direction. “News of your triumph has spread before you. The flesh of the Grass Hound will be a boon to many.” He was grinning so hard I was afraid his face might split in half.

I left him shouting well wishes and blessings on me and hiked through the town as fast as I could. The day was beginning to weigh heavily on me, and the lumpy mattress and scratchy blanket at the Three Chimneys were calling me by name.

“Does that guy seem suspicious to you?” Cal asked as we walked.

“Suspicious how?” I asked, hooking a left at the shoemaker, marked out with a wooden signed featuring a painted boot.

“Hard to put my finger on it exactly,” the specter replied. “I guess he just seems too helpful. It feels like he keeps trying to get rid of you. Like he might be hiding something.”

“You’re being paranoid,” I said as we headed past the bakery, which smelled of warm bread. My stomach grumbled in angry protest. Feed me now! “Besides, I’d be trying to get rid of the scary monster killer covered in gore as fast as possible too, if I were in his shoes.”

“Maybe,” Cal said, “just stay on your toes, man. We can’t forget what Arturo said—that Elder Changeling thing could be anyone.”

“Fair enough,” I replied as we headed over to a well-appointed stone shop with a sign that read Wikstrum Apothecary.

We found the man in question, Sigge Wikstrum, hovering in the doorway, sneering at the passersby with a look so haughty and full of self-importance that I wanted to the clock him in the jaw the minute I saw him. He had pale greasy skin and oily black hair, and he was decked out in a robe of fine silk trimmed with jewels. Ermine lined the cowl. I had to admit that Arturo’s description had been pretty apt. A human grease stain. Around his neck was a rope of gold, weighed down by gilded flies with topaz eyes and diamond thoraxes.

“The tradesman’s entrance is around the back,” he said with a dismissive sniff.

“I think you’ll want what I have,” I replied.

“That’s as may be, wanderer, but that doesn’t change the facts of the matter.” He was staring past me, waiting for someone more important, not looking at me at all. “Tradesmen enter around the back.”

“Not a tradesman, pal.” I stepped into his line of vision and waited.

It took him a couple of pupil-blowing seconds as he gathered his robes around him and stepped away from the stench I brought with my loot. He openly gawped when he saw the red eyes, the sigil-branded forehead, and the golden hair matted with gore. Then his gaze darted just behind me to where Cal lingered. That immediately got my attention. Unless Arturo was lying, only those who had access to the True Gift in some capacity could see creatures of the Etheric Realm like Cal. That meant this slimeball was a magic user in one capacity or another.

His gaze shifted again as he forced his razor-thin lips into a facsimile of a smile. “Ah, greetings, Vigil. Forgive me for not recognizing you. I was expecting someone a little less… bloody. Still…” He grimaced and offered me a brief bow. “We are honored to have you grace our door. I am afraid, however, that your guest”—he shot a look at Cal—“will have to remain outside. There are several complicated wards in place that aren’t easily disarmed, nor would I want to given the unfortunate events that have brought you to our city.” He paused and dry washed his hands. “I’m sure you understand.”

“You gonna be okay?” I asked Cal over one shoulder.

“Don’t sweet it, buddy. I’m feeling beat anyway—could use a little nappy poo over in the Etheric Realm.” He paused and leaned in close. “But keep an eye on this dickwad. Maybe I was being paranoid about Commander Arendu, but this guy has wannabe edgelord written all over him.” Then he disappeared with a blink as Sigge ushered me in.

The inside of his shop seemed like a perfect reflection of the man who ran it. The floors were immaculate gray stone and the walls were decorated with fine cloth tapestries that depicted a number of ancient symbols that meant nothing to me. Brass candelabras jutted from the walls, and a heavy wrought iron chandelier hung down from a thick chain, shedding warm orange light throughout the room. Bookcases lined several walls—the thick leather tomes on them all dusted and presented with great care—while wooden shelves, heavy laden with various ingredients, dominated the rest of the room. Along the back wall was a glass-fronted counter, crammed with vials brimming with colorful liquids.

Behind the counter was another set of shelves that housed heavy cauldrons, mortars and pestles, flasks and vials, burners and brass retorts.

I ignored all that stuff, marched straight up to his clean counter, and unceremoniously dumped the Grass Hound organs across the glass. Sort of a dick move, but this guy rubbed me in all the wrong ways, so I didn’t really care. I crossed my arms and waited.

Sigge glowered as he slipped behind the counter but didn’t mention the spectacular mess I’d just made. Instead, he hunched forward, hands perched on his knees as he regarded the items. He sniffed deeply, eyes closed, lips slightly parted.

“Fresh,” he marveled. “Slain today, if I am not mistaken?”

I nodded curtly. He already knew that. Then again, so did everyone else in this town. It was no secret who I was or what I was doing here.

“Truly a treasure trove,” he whispered. His hands fluttered over the organs while he drank them in with his eyes. “Ah…” He paused. It was the first moment of real emotion from him. The rest had been for show. “You even managed to extract the gallbladders without perforating them. Such talent. You are more gifted than you appear. With these we will save the lives of many. And make fortunes for those whose fortune has passed. Your name will be blessed many a time and again…”

“Yeah, don’t get carried away, Siggemeister. How much?”

“For you, Vigil, the highest price.”

I nodded. I’d heard the same from the commander and ended with a pouch of coins. I had a strong sense these were worth ten times what Arendu had shelled out.

“Tell me.” He leaned closer, but not too close. “What would these fetch in your land, hmm?”

“Like you said—they’re fresh and I didn’t perforate the gallbladder,” I replied, feeding him the info he’d already given me. This guy sent up all kinds of creepy red flags and I didn’t want him to know that I wasn’t just new in town, but new to this world. “Top dollar for sure.”

“Yes, of course,” he said. “And do they suspend the gallbladders in a syrup of pomegranate as we do?” He wiggled his eyebrows at me, though why I wasn’t sure. “And excrete the bile under a full moon…?”

“Do I look like an alchemist to you? Just tell me how much.” I was tired of all the dancing around and wanted to get gone.

“Your accent?” He smiled—that same fake smile he’d put on earlier. “It’s from Lyshaven, perhaps?”

I nodded. Sounded as good a place as any.

“I knew it!” He slapped his hand on his thighs. “And where do you stay, now that you are among us?”

“Three Chimneys.” It wouldn’t be hard for him to pry that out of anyone on the street. No point lying about something that obvious.

He rooted around in a drawer behind the counter. “And how long might you stay?”

I couldn’t answer that question, so I didn’t.

He held out two leather pouches, bursting at the seams. “My apologies, but it is not every day I have a chance to speak to a Vigil. I don’t suppose you have any news of the victims?” He licked his lips and there was a thin sheen of sweat dotting his forehead. “Have there been more? I have visited with our good Arbitrator, but all he will say is that it is in the hands of Raguel, God of the Vigilant…”

He waited for me to fill in conversational gaps I had no intention of filling. I reached for my payment, and he pulled both bags away. Only a little, but I knew a pissant power play when I saw one.

“Please, dear Vigil. Tell me, who kills the good people of Ironmoor? Is it man or beast?” His eyes flashed as though he knew a shit ton more than he was letting on.

“How about you tell me, Sigge?”

Cal was right to be suspicious. This guy was self-important, self-aggrandizing, nosey, and a grade A douchebag on top of everything else. He also had one hell of a shield up. Suspicious didn’t even begin to cover it. Sigge had moved right to the very top of my suspect list. Could be he was just a curious alchemist like he claimed, but the type of info he was pumping me for suggested he was more invested in whatever was going on than a mere citizen would be.

I leaned forward and snatched up the coin pouches, not bothering to count the contents. “We’re done here,” I growled.

I turned and left without a backward glance though I felt his eyes boring into me as I let the door swing shut behind me. We were done for now, but I’d be back. He knew more than he was letting on, and I intended to find out what.