“You’re on interference,” I growled into Arturo’s ear, “I can’t afford to get pinned down by Gutav or Stigge.”

The Magistrate was sweeping toward me, a false smile plastered onto his face. Arturo was already on it. This was a different kind of battlefield than what I was used to, but thankfully the priest seemed as comfortable here as he did brandishing a war staff against Stone Spiders. He squared his shoulders and slipped past various ball goers, patting arms here, shaking hands there, never getting bogged down as he traced his path across the floor. He intercepted Gustav, putting his whole enormous frame between me and the magistrate, then locking the man into a lingering handshake.

I broke right, tracing my way along the wall, slowly but steadily angling toward the door where the workers were pouring out from like worker ants. Unlike Arturo who had an uncanny knack for politely slipping past the snooty guests, I quickly found myself hemmed in on three sides by a pair of women in hooped ballgowns and a weaselly looking lord with a waxy complexion that was wearing pants so tight they left nothing at all to the imagination.

“Well this is quite the unexpected surprise,” one of the noble women said, “I knew there was a Vigil in the city, but I never expected to meet one in person.” Her gaze seemed to roam over my body, lingering on my red eyes and the golden mark branded against my forehead. Her lips curled in the ghost of a smile. “I’m Lady Angwin.” She extended a petite hand, clad in a silk glove. “Charmed, I’m sure.”

I knew she was expecting me to fall all over myself, bowing and scraping, and kissing her hand. Instead, I grabbed the proffered limb in a firm grip and gave it a good couple of pumps. A handshake my dad would be proud off.

“Glad to meet you,” I said, watching a tinge of pink creep into her cheeks.

“I’m Lady Derowen Rosevear,” the second woman said, failing to offer me her hand. “And this is my dearest brother, Kenwyn.”

“Good to meet you too, Lord Mooseknuckle,” I said, refusing to look down.

He cocked his head and glanced at me askew, clearly confused. Seemed like Mooseknuckle was one of those culturally specific phrases that didn’t translate well.

“Likewise,” the man smirked, forcing a smile. “Like Lady Angwin, I too am more than a little surprised to find a Vigil here, especially with all of these heinous attacks that have been plaguing our town.” The unspoken implication was clear—why was I here, dirtying their fancy party, instead of out on the town, running down leads?

“Funnily enough,” I replied, “The attacks are what brought me here.”

“Oh dear,” he said, clutching his chest in feigned shocked. “Should we be worried? I suppose a party such as this would make for a perfect opportunity for the foul beast to strike at the heart of Ironmoor’s ruling class.”

“Naw,” I said, patting his shoulder. “I think you’re safe. The attacks happen every couple of weeks, and the last one was just a few days ago. I reckon the only thing you’re in danger of is testicular torsion. No, the reason I’m here is because I think some of guests may be implicated in the killings.” I paused and narrowed my eyes. “I don’t suppose you would be interested in telling me where you were the night of the last murder?” Once more I imbued the words with added authority.

The question hung on the air like a threat and I could see all three of them flinch away in discomfort. None of these three were the Hexblight—I could read it in the lines of their bodies, in the flare of the eyes, in the sudden intake of breath. They were scared, both of the creature and of the idea that they might somehow have their reputations sullied.

In short, they were spineless turkeys.

“It couldn’t have been me,” Lord Mooseknuckle stammered, the words forcing their way through his teeth. “I was entertaining a young male escort.” His hand flew up with a life of its own, covering his mouth in shock. His sister’s eyes bulged almost as much, and Lady Angwin let out a strangled gasp.

“Hey, no judgement from me,” I said, raising my hands. “What you do on your own time is none of my business so long as it doesn’t involve transforming into a monster and slaughtering innocents. None of you transform into a monster and slaughter the innocent, right?” I asked, voice low but thrumming with power.

All three stammered out an enthusiastic round of “God’s No” and “I would never” almost in unison while simultaneously looking mortified at the very notion.

“That’s good,” I replied, nodding. “I bet you would do anything to help me stop such a monster, right? Especially since it might help improve your political standing?”

Their ears perked right up, fear and embarrassment forgotten, replaced by a combination of greed and raw ambition. Not spineless turkeys after all. More like vultures.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. I need to get into the kitchen,” I jabbed a finger at the double doors, “and I need you three to help me. Deflect anyone who tries to stop me. Can you do that for me?”

Their eyes glazed over for a beat as the command settled around them like a weight, and then they turned and headed for the doors. Lady Angwin hooked her arm through mine, and gently coxed me into motion with a little tug.

“Pretend to make small talk,” she said, smiling as though she were conferring some hilarious tale. “My family holds considerable standing in Ironmoor and none of the others will feel safe interrupting a private conversation.” Lord Mooseknuckle took up a position to my right, while his sister Lady Rosevear glided in front of us like a debutante vanguard. “Moreover,” she whispered, “the Rosevears are firmly in Gustav’s pocket—they were supposed to keep tabs on you, should you decide to attend this evening’s event.”

A few people made as if to approach us, but between my three escorts, none got within spitting distance before being turned away with a curt word or an icy glare. A path cleared for us like Moses parting the Red Sea and a quick glance over one shoulder showed me that Gustav was still pinned down by an overly animated Arturo. We were attracting far more attention than I wanted, but there was nothing I could do about that. Lady Angwin dropped my arm and blocked the doors with her expansive hooped skirts. The two Rosevears posted up beside her, forming a wall of bodies and fabric, temporarily obscuring me from view.

The doors flapped open, a server coming out, and I ducked and darted in at the same instant.

“Best of luck,” Lady Angwin whispered as the doors swung shut, blocking the ballroom from view. “And please don’t forget how helpful we were!”

Heat hit me full in the face. The kitchen was sweltering—a combination of ovens and fireplaces and burbling soup pots all churning together. It was also a barely controlled mad house. Chefs and scullions scuttled about, chopping vegetables and meats, stirring enormous pots or pulling fresh bread from the bellies of wrought iron ovens. Young, fresh faced kitchen hands plated dishes and loaded up trays, while others bussed dirty cookware over to huge sinks for cleaning. Everyone was paying so much attention to the work at hand that no one had time for some rando appearing in their workspace.

Not even one with glowing red eyes, dressed in spiked armor.

Still, I needed to be cautious. I pushed myself over near the wall, into a small pool of shadow and activated Stealth Step. My Stamina Bar appeared beneath my Arcana gauge, slowly draining as the shadows around me seemed to reach out and embrace me. Drawing me in like an old friend. I wasn’t invisible, but I felt less substantial somehow. I waited for a few seconds, searching the kitchen for an exit. There were several—a broad hallway that likely lead to a private dining room somewhere on the first floor—and a short hallway that connected to a tight staircase that spiraled straight up.

That was my target.

Although the kitchen was well lit with a host of blazing fires, those same flames provided a bounty of shadowy nooks and crannies that could conceal me. Several staff members seemed to spot me as I moved, but their gazes lingered only a second before sliding off me like butter in a hot pan. Several of them shook their heads and a few rubbed at their eyes as though they thought they were seeing something. At one point, a particularly observant boy of maybe twelve in a grease-stained apron came over and cocked his head, staring straight at me.

“You shouldn’t be in here,” he said in a low voice.

“You’re right,” I replied, “I’m just heading out, don’t mind me.”

“Oh, okay,” he said, sounding sleepy. He turned and went back to work, stirring the contents of a large soup pot without sparing me another glance.

The servant’s staircase was clear—it was all hands-on deck, and everyone was completely focused on the party—so it was a piece of cake to make it to the next floor. A false door let out into a wide hallway edged with gold plated candelabras and classical oil paintings of various pretentious looking nobles. The last portrait on the wall was of none other than Gustav. There were several closed doorways up ahead, but I had no idea where to start. This place was enormous. I approached the first door and gave the handle a gentle jiggle.

It rattled but refused to open. Locked.

Not that a locked door was a problem for me.

The cool metal beneath my palm sang to me in a small voice. I activated Deft Touch and extended a hair-fine thread of Arcana into the keyhole above the knob. My Arcana Pool drained a sliver as invisible weaves of energy filled up the keyhole, searching out grooves and divots, naturally raising the trio of thin metal pins that secured the lock in place. I could feel those pins reverberate through the tether of Arcana and click ever so subtly into place. With the slightest application of pressure, the lock released and the knob turned freely in my hand.

The door squeaked softly as it swung inwards.

Inside was a guestroom with a bed twice the size of the one I was sleeping on back at the Inn and a spattering of ornate furniture. I quietly shut the door and moved onto the next, but as I touch the metal some intangible sixth sense told me I would only find more of the same. Empty, meaningless rooms that wouldn’t offer me the answers I needed. A door at the end of the hallway, however, called out to me like a siren. I squinted and canted my head—maybe it was just a trick of the light, but the edges of the door appeared to glimmer like an illusionary heat wave dancing over hot asphalt on a scorching summer day.

I ghosted forward on preternaturally silent feet, casting a backward glance over one shoulder. The hallway was clear, but there was no telling how long it would stay that way. The lock was far more formidable than the one that had guarded the guestroom, which meant I was probably on the right track. Still, it only took me a handful of seconds longer to breech. At eight points, Deft Touch wasn’t exactly a cheap ability, but holy shit was it usefully in the right circumstances. Trying to force my way past all these locks would’ve been like blowing a foghorn.

Inside was a well-appointed office with heavy rugs, an enormous stone hearth, built-in dark wood bookcases loaded down with leather-bound tomes, and a sprawling desk framed by a den window overlooking a picturesque flower garden below. If the door had glimmered like a heat mirage, the desk sparkled like someone had set off a glitterbomb. That had to be my Wyld Wisdom ability at work. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, but I was positive it was hidden somewhere inside the desk.

I dropped Stealth Step, allowing my Stamina Bar to regenerate, and crept around the far side of the desk, and dropped into a stately high-backed chair covered in crushed velvet upholstery. There was on central drawer beneath the desk, which was also locked, and several more drawers running down each side that weren’t. I pulled up the side drawers and quickly rifled through the contents looking for anything obviously incriminating—like say a cursed wooden mask or maybe a kill list with names crudely scratched off.

Unfortunately, I didn’t find anything that screamed, I’m a murdering, demon-possessed asshole.

I used Deft Touch and easily picked the lock securing the central drawer, but that was filled with nothing more than a variety of writing implements—blank parchment, ink bottles, quills, wax and letter seal—and what looked like a couple of top-shelf cigars. Those, I slipped into my pocket for later. I wasn’t a chain smoker like a lot of my buddies, but a good celebratory cigar every now and again wouldn’t go amiss and I didn’t even feel remotely bad about stealing from Gustav’s private stash. Even if the guy wasn’t a murderer, I was certain he was guilty of something—not least of which was being a world class dick.

But I was missing something.

The desk glowed like a goddamend disco ball. So either my Wyld Wisdom was defective or Gustav had been smart enough to conceal all of his dubious misdeeds behind something stronger than a simple drawer lock. I leaned back in the chair, critically eyeing the desk, searching for anything I might have missed on my first past. I once again pulled out drawers on the left and noticed that they were significantly shallower than the drawers on the right. Almost as if there were something tucked away behind the drawers.

There were also a series of dull scuff marks on the wooden floorboards. Something had been dragged across the surface more than once. Curious. I pulled the central desk drawer out again, pushed the chair away, and dropped onto one knee so I could get a better look inside. Against the very back of the drawer was a slightly discolored section of wood, no larger than a dime—it would’ve been impossible to see without my enhanced vision. I jammed a thumb against the button and felt it give. I slowly but steadily pushed the drawer in, applying steady pressure to the button the whole while.

A second later there was an audible click and a small side panel popped open on the lefthand side of desk. I pulled it open, the bottom of the secret compartment scraping softly across the floor in the familiar arc which had been scoured into the floorboards. Inside were a trio of books that all burned with otherworldly light. This was what I’d come here to find. The first was a private journal, and although I didn’t have time to read through every entry, it wasn’t hard to guess who the journal belonged too.

The second book was filled with what appeared to be shipping manifests. Detailed reports of incoming and outgoing goods, payments, loads. The info was as dry as a mummy’s butthole and almost put me to sleep—hopefully Arturo would be able to help me decipher them. The last book was a log of mining operations, going back at least six months. Lists of employees, wage statements, metrics on ore deposits and excavation rates. There was also an entire section on the Stone Spiders—respawn rates, how much it cost to bring in mercenaries, profit sheets noting how much revenue the Stone Spider organs had generated. Sigge’s name was all over those records.

If there was any doubt that Gustav was running the operations down in the mines, there was none now. This guy was into to some shady shit and Sigge was neck deep in the muck as well.