There was a flash of movement in my peripheral vision. I slammed the hidden compartment shut while simultaneously searching for a pool of shadows to blend into.

False alarm. It was only Cal.

The shade stepped through one of the bookcases, a wide grin on his face.

“You okay, dude?” he asked, sounding genuinely concerned. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” A slow smile spread across his lips at the stupid pun.

“That was bad and you should feel bad for saying it,” I replied, running a hand through my hair. “You’re also damn lucky I didn’t plant a bullet in your face.” I shot a glance toward the door. “I’m feeling a mite bite trigger happy these days.”

“You sound paranoid, Boyd. Not everyone is out to get you, you know. Only almost everyone is out to get you—which is why you definitely shouldn’t shoot me in the face. I’m about the only one you can trust and you really can’t afford to lose any allies at this point. Now take a chill pill and come see what I found. It’s the motherload, dude.” He hooked a thumb toward the bookcase he’d just floated through. “There’s a secret passageway behind that. Leads down to secret laboratory with some serious mad-scientist vibes.”

I hoofed it over to the case and quickly went to work, searching for more hidden buttons or switches. Naturally, the key was a book entitled A Path to Esoteric Revelation. It was surprising because of how on the nose it was and because of how pathetically predictable Gustav was turning out to be. The only way he could’ve looked more guilty was if he stood in the corner while twisting a handlebar mustache, Snidely Whiplash style. When I tugged at the top edge of the book, the whole case swung outward on oiled hinges, revealing a narrow spiral staircase that bored straight down into the ground.

I drew my Colt, dropped into a combat firing stance, and slowly descended, counting the steps as I went. This stairwell was identical in dimensions and design to the servant’s staircase that had brought me upstairs from the kitchen, except it had twice as many steps—thirty-two in total. That meant we weren’t on the first level, but in a hidden subbasement. The room was rectangular, the floors composed of slate tiles, the ceilings claustrophobically low. Engraved into the floor was an elaborate ritual circle, crafted from gold, gemstones, and powdered Selitrium.

There were more bookcases down here as well as a ritual altar and what appeared to be an alchemy lab—complete with glass bottles filled with different ingredients. I was sorely regretting the fact that I hadn’t picked Alchemic Mastery since I couldn’t identify any of the materials. Belay that. I’d spent enough time slicing and dicing Grass Hound corpses to spot the heap of gallbladders shoved inside a fluid filled jar. Another jar nearby held harvested Stone Spider eyeballs. I’d seen a setup like this before—back at Sigge Wikstrum’s Alchemy Shoppe.

There was a single tunnel leading from the room—a hidden exit that likely let out somewhere on Gustav’s property. An entrance that would allow Sigge to come and go as he pleased without drawing any unwanted attention from the nosy residents of Pithom Row.

“Oh yeah,” Cal said as he padded up behind me, “I also found Renholm.” He waved a ghostly hand toward the workstation by the Alchemy ingredients. The pixie was sprawled out on his back in a pile of oddly glowing blue-white powder. He looked high out of his mind, his mouth partially open, his pupils wide, his eyes unblinking as he stared off into space. I headed over and shook the pixie. He blinked slowly and sat up, his slight body swaying like a dandelion in a strong breeze as he regarded me.

“Has anyone told you how ugly you are?” he said slurring his speech. “All humans are inherently hideous, but you… you fell off this ugly tree, hit every branch on the way down, then climbed back to the top and jump again off just for the fun of it.” He gave a little hiccup then tottered uncertainly as though his body were trying to decide whether it should fall over or not.

“What the hell is wrong with him?” I asked Cal.

The specter shrugged. “Any time he’s weird I just assume that’s normal pixie shit.”

“For your information, there’s nothing wrong with me,” the pixie hiccupped again. “I’ve never felt better in my entire life. I’m one with the universe. I’ve seen the mind of god, meat bag. All because of this.” He picked up a handful of the powder and let it trickle through his fingers. Then he buried his face in his palm and snorted like his life depended on it.

“Great. We let him off his leash for twenty minutes and he finds pixie catnip. Why would I expect anything else?”

“I don’t know what catnip is,” Renholm responded, speech slurred. “But this is better. Much better.” He held up his hand again, staring enraptured at his fingers. “Malefic Saserway is harvested from the glands of the Giant Barbwing. When mixed with Crimson Cassia, ground Cullweed, and Grass Hound gallbladder it makes for a powerful Mortka repellent, which is what most humans use it for.” He grinned and waggled his eyebrows at me. “But in its raw form, Malefic Saserway is a hallucinogenic for those with Fae Blood.” He gave one more hiccup then toppled back over into the pile of dust, eyes shut tight.

He was snoring contently within seconds. Because of course he was. With a sigh, I scooped up the slumbering pixie and shoved him into a leather coin pouch at my side. The one without the Affinity Scales. I didn’t want him waking up and choosing to help himself to a post hangover meal.

There was a clatter from the stairs followed by the echoing shout of angry voices. I moved against the far wall, summoned my Colt and trained the barrel at base of the staircase, ready for whatever stormed into the room.

A huffing, red-faced Gustav rounded the bend, followed in short order by the lanky, greaseball Sigge Wikstrum and Arturo bringing up the rear.

“Deepest apologies, Vigil,” the Padre called out. “I tried to stall him for as long as I was able.”

“You did great,” I said, waving away his apology with my free hand.

“So it was all some unscrupulous ploy,” the magistrate snapped, hands quivering at his side. The balding, portly man was wearing an embroidered brocade doublet with golden buttons that struggled mightily to contain his straining gut and pair of thin white pants that showed way more of his anatomy than anyone, anywhere wanted to see. Apparently mooseknuckle was all the rage around these parts. Rings adorned every finger and the guy had enough gold slung around his neck to give him back problems.

“How dare you!” he continued, his face a thunderhead. “You take advantage of my hospitality, break into my private quarters, and defile my sanctuary. You have no right—”

“Stow it,” I said, cutting his tirade short. “I have every right. I’m a Vigil, not sure you got the memo, but I don’t hold an allegiance to anyone. Including a self-important windbag in some backwater city like Ironmoor. I’m an instrument of divine retribution and I’m bound through sacred vows to a higher order, tasked with rooting out evil in whatever form it takes. And right now, I’m thinking evil has taken the form of dumpy turd dressed in too much gold. So how ’bout you cut the bullshit and start talking, huh?”

He was visibly shaking, jaw clenched tight as he resisted the impulse to spill his guts.

I sighed and rolled my eyes. “You’re not doing yourselves any favors,” I pressed. “Neither of you.” I turned my hellish red gaze on Sigge. “Look, I know about the mines. Me and Arturo have already been down there. We’ve seen the evidence firsthand.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Gustav said. “Assuming there is something down in the mines—which is pure speculation, of course—I’m quite sure you don’t have any evidence that might tie us directly to the undertaking. Not anything that would stand up under the scrutiny of a solicitor, at any rate.”

“Yep, nothing except the ledgers chronicling your operations, you human embodiment of a walnut,” I said. “You know the one’s I’m talking about—the journals tucked away in the hidden compartment in your desk. It’s as good as a confession. Now tell me what I want to know.” The words came out like a whip crack, informing both Sigge and Gustav that no mercy would be shown, nor quarter given. Unless they played ball.

Gustav’s jowls hardened in defiance—he was going to fight me every step of the way. Sigge? Not so much. The alchemist wilted, desperate to turn on his buddy.

“I swear,” Sigge pleaded, “I never intended to cheat the crown, I swear it.” He wrung his hands out, strings of snot running from his nose as his lips trembled. “I told Gustav that we needed to report the vein, but he wouldn’t listen. He was consumed by greed. And what was I too do against someone as powerful as the Magistrate of Ironmoor? I am but a simple Alchemist following orders.”

“Lies,” Gustav hissed, turning on the greaseball. “This whole thing was your idea, you weasel!”

“What was his idea?” I asked, softening my voice just a touch.

“To avoid the Queen’s taxes, of course,” Gustav said. He grabbed a rag from his pocket and hastily mopped his face with it. “It was Marcus who brought it to our attention.”

“Marcus Pekkala, the line picker?” Arturo asked.

“One and the same,” Gustav replied with a curt nod. “He was always down in those mines, looking for remnants. Even a vial of Selitrium can go for enough to feed a family his size for a month or more. He had to sell it under the table, of course, but there is always a market for Selitrium.” His eyes darted to Sigge.

The Alchemist licked his lips. “Yes. Fine,” he said, on the edge of tears. “I would buy it from him. Selitrium is next to impossible to get these days and I use it for so many of my tinctures and potions. Then, one day not long after the quake, he came to me and…” he faltered. “And, well, he told me that a new fissure had appeared. He pulled out a chunk of unprocessed Selitrium ore as big as my fist. Laid it right on my table. I didn’t have the connections or manpower to harvest the vein, so I came to Gustav.”

“And I did what I do best,” the magistrate said, fretfully straightening his doublet. “I put a crew together. Mining the Selitrium was only half the battle. We had to refine the raw ore and find a way to ship it. Sigge was able to help me with the first piece. My close connections with Captain Ervo, the Caravan Guard Commander, held with the second piece. With him on board it was but a simple task to ship the powder out to the neighboring cities, and from there to whoever was willing to bid the highest for our goods.”

I held up a hand to stop him, my mind working through the problem.

“Okay, tracking so far. By why all the secrecy? Wasn’t this place renowned for its Selitrium mines once upon a time?”

“Indeed it was,” Arturo said, “but Selitrium is highly regulated by the crown because of its intrinsic magical properties. Anyone with an active mine is required to sell at least fifty percent of all its product to the crown at a steep discount, and a thirty percent royal tax is levied against the remaining supply. But even with those restrictions, mining and shipping Selitrium is still extremely lucrative. It is far more lucrative, however, to sell it in unregulated markets. Warlocks, Sorcerers, Steelborn, Alchemists—all would pay ten times what the crown does.”

“So you knuckleheads didn’t want to pay taxes,” I said. “All of this is about cheating Uncle Sam?”

“I don’t know who this Uncle Sam is,” Gustav said, licking his lips nervously, “but yes. It was about money. Just money. Its business, you must understand. And why should we have to pay the crown, eh? Does High Queen Palander dirty her hands in these mines? No. It is our blood and sweat that produce the Selitrium—it is the labor of our hands, not hers, yet she takes and takes and takes. That is far more criminal than anything we’ve done.”

I crossed the room in three strides, wrapped my hand around his throat, and lifted him into the air. This was the kind of thing only pro wrestles did, but with all the points I’d added to Brawn, I managed it without even breaking a sweat.

“There are eight people dead,” I snarled. “Innocent people. So don’t you dare pretend you haven’t hurt anyone.”

He gasped, eyes bulging, pudgy fingers clawing uselessly at my iron grip.

“We have nothing to do with that!” Sigge squealed. “May Raguel strike me down if there is any deceit on my tongue.”

“I just might take you up on that,” I replied, setting Gustav back on his feet. “And don’t bullshit me, you greasy turdball—I saw the ritual chamber room down in the mines and I know you did too. So you better get to talking while you still have teeth in your mouth.”

“The beast is not of our doing,” Sigge sputtered, “just the opposite. You must believe us! It’s been targeting our operations, not aiding them. You said yourself that you have our logs—you can check our worker roster. Every victim is either an employee or the family member of an employee. Why would we be targeting our own operation? These attacks our no boon to our business. We’ve had to pay the workers double their normal rates just to get them to venture down into the mines.”

That stopped me cold. I’d watched enough crime dramas to know you always followed the money.

Assuming Sigge wasn’t lying—and he wasn’t, he was way too scared—then that removed the motive completely. They wouldn’t go to all the trouble of starting an illegal mining operation, only to undercut their own efforts by attacking their workers. Especially since doing so would inevitably draw the attention of a Vigil, who would start poking around in their business, just like I’d done.

“Then what is all of this stuff?” I asked, waving a hand toward the alchemic vials and the sigil on the ground. “Because it looks like dark magic to me.”

“Its for protection against the monster,” Sigge said. “Our miners, they uncovered something while excavating. Unleashed a thing that ought to have remained buried. Knowing what we did, I had to protect us. The creature was clearly targeting us—this is designed to keep it at bay. Out there, we our vulnerable, but in here our wards are better than steel doors. This sigil protects Gustav’s entire estate, though it is costly to keep it maintained.”

“I’m still convinced it’s all part of the curse,” Gustav said, rubbing at his throat with thick, sausage fingers. “Those damnable Rjuhella are finally getting their revenge.” He looked scared as he whispered the words.

Arturo had also mentioned something about a curse, back when we’d first stumbled into the mines. I’d dismissed it at the time because curses were a bunch of horseshit. At least, they were in my world. But here? Here curses were the real deal. Hell, I’d been on the receiving end of a few curses already. Maybe there was something to it after all.

“What curse?” I asked.

“The Iskrati family,” Sigge choked out. “They were a family of Rjuhella immigrants who moved into Ironmoor about twenty years back—a father and mother and daughter. This was right around the same time as the troubles started. With the mines. You have to understand, back in those days the ore was everything. It was the lifeblood of this city.”

“Selitrium exports accounted for a third of Ironmoor’s economy,” Gustav said, tucking his thumbs into the waistline of his pants. “When they went dry, it was a death sentence for our city.” He paused and licked his lips. “The people… well, you know how commoners can be. Fickle. Ignorant. Violent. They were angry and wanted someone to blame.”

“So they turned on the outsiders,” I mumbled.

“Indeed they did,” Gustav said. “Rumors circulated that the Iskrati woman was a sorcerous. It didn’t take long for the rumor to stick. No surprise there. Nobody likes the Rjuhella anyway, on account of their ties to the Sapphire City and Isabella the Ghostblood. Most folks already assume their blood is unclean…” he trailed off. “They responded exactly as you might expect. They extracted vengeance. A mob tried the father, hung him by the neck until his feet stopped kicking. But hanging wasn’t enough for the mother. A Scion of the Ghostblood, they whispered. Legend holds the only way to truly kill one of their kind is by purifying flame, which is why they burned her alive.”

I felt sick to my stomach.

“What happened to the daughter?” I said, almost afraid to ask. I’d seen plenty of shit over in Iraq and what happened to the kids always broke my heart.

“Dead, I think,” Gustav said with a shrug like he’d never given it a second thought. “Or not. I didn’t attend the executions. Such things are beneath my dignity.”

“Yeah, you’re a real saint,” I said, turning my back on the man. “Cal, Arturo, we have what we came for. We’ll see ourselves out,” I grunted, heading down the emergency tunnel. I couldn’t stomach the idea of mingling with Gustav and all his guests. I was tired, both physically and emotionally. We had answers, but not the answers I’d been hoping for. These two turds were dodging the law, but for the oldest reason in the book: plain, ol’ fashioned greed. I still had no idea who was behind the mask, and time was running out. The clock was counting down and I only had a week before the Hexblight returned, ready for round two.