They didn’t turn me over to the aunties, mostly because bits of the petrified ointment were still flaking off me like plaster. Bryce made a stop at Logan’s place to drop off the lovebirds, then gave me a lift home.

  First thing I did was perform the Flesh Severing Ritual, cutting off any link to the blood I’d left at the hospital, it was useless now, even for potions. Hopefully, Betty hadn’t had time to brew any compulsion yet.

  After that, I rubbed the ointment over the parts of my body one generally doesn’t show in polite company, then went over the biggest patches again on my upper torso. I waited for the ointment to set, then began scraping it off. Sometimes, unfortunately, with hair attached, where I’d gone a bit too heavy and the hardened flakes refused to budge.

  One jar wasn’t enough to clear all the grey stains. The biggest was just above my groin, right across from the elemental source, or rather, earth source, now. It was brimming. That sense of a bottomless abyss was gone. If it weren’t for the poisoning, I’d have tried a couple of spells then and there. But instead, I lowered the magical saturation in my body and poured three-quarters of it into my reservoir.

  A single tiny reservoir! Three-quarters of my source’s reserve, and it all fit into a bloody stone-skin ring. The thing barely lasts six seconds!

  No words. Just — no words.

  I was so annoyed I stomped off to the bath and washed off the last of the ointment. Then, trousers on, warm dressing gown over the top, slippers, and off to the kitchen.

  I fried some eggs with sausage in lard, seasoned it with Worcestershire sauce, and for the first time in days, sat down to a proper meal. No idea where the baronet was, but wherever he was, he could stay there.

  I poured myself a cup of tea, milk, just a drop, and wandered into Granddad’s study to watch night fall on the city through the big window. The lamps came on, one by one. Stars began to flicker into view.

  The peace didn’t last long.

  A woman screamed.

  Shouts followed. Men’s voices. Gunfire. The unmistakable thunder of destructive spells. Flashes of all colours lit up the far side of the neighbourhood, where Alexandra Feron lived.

  I dashed for my pistol, slung my satchel over my shoulder, stuffed a dagger into my dressing gown pocket, and sprinted into the yard. I did change out of my slippers into shoes, and cast three spells on the go: rear view, acceleration, and precision.

  Whatever time I lost lacing up, I made up with speed. You can’t sprint in slippers, after all.

  Not that I had to run far.

  Right there, on the patchy front lawn, just beyond the neat little white picket fence, the earth had bulged in several places. Out of the soil burst a wave of rats I knew all too well. Filthy, stinking things, with matted fur and open sores. Some were missing ears. Others had no tails. But they all had that mad gleam in their tiny red eyes.

  I calmed the first pair with two precise shots: one rat lost its head and stopped twitching; the second had its pelvis blown apart, but kept crawling. I missed twice more, then switched focus, firing into the burrows as they came up, so the next rats had to push corpses aside just to surface.

  But my magazine ran dry before I’d really got the hang of it, and several were already just metres away.

  I remembered how well these things could jump, so I activated my aether-steel shield and slammed its edge down on the nearest chimera.

  Rotten guts sprayed everywhere.

  The next rat crashed straight into the transparent plane and slid off with a squeal.

  Neighbours were pouring into the street, men, women, even kids, all armed. Shotguns boomed, ripping the rats to bits. Pistols clanged, spells whistled. The air thickened with the stench of gunpowder, rot, and burning fur.

  Old Angus McLilly from across the road was flooding the pavement with twin streams of fire from a pair of rods. Rats burst into living torches beneath the jets, dashed a few steps, then dropped as twitching lumps of charred meat.

  Opposite him, young witch Lily Logg was grimacing and flinging airy orbs at the vermin — the bubbles exploded with such force they tore the rotting bodies apart like buckshot from her father’s antique shotgun.

  And yet, there was something off about it all.

  The rats ignored everything: the spells, the shouting, the gunfire. They dashed past everyone else and came straight for me.

  Why?

  What exactly were they reacting to?

  The one pressed against my shield tried to go around. More chimeras appeared on the right, left, even behind me. I rotated the shield and slammed it flat against the ground, pulping five at once. Spun on my heel and crushed another dozen behind me.

  The charge in the reservoirs dropped instantly. Covering such a wide area drained magic like a machine gun chews through bullets. I couldn’t keep up. I couldn’t turn fast enough.

  The dagger!

  The blade Uncle had given me flew from my pocket of its own accord, responding to its enchantment and my will. It spun into the air, flipped point-down, and carved a wide arc around me, slicing a pair of chimera mid-leap.

  The next circle took an even bloodier toll. But there were just too many. They came in waves, clambering over each other, over the corpses of their own kind.

  The dagger’s reservoirs were melting like wax in a flame.

  It was getting bad. I activated stone-skin and made a run for the house.

  The lawn was buried in rat corpses, so thick I couldn’t tell which were dead and which were alive. There were far more than had attacked the Anvil. Back then, Brian and I had held them off together, they’d crawled through windows, but those ones had been... different. More alive. Less smelly. Not so bloody fast!

  These were like bullets.

  I couldn’t keep track of them all. I lost sight of the dagger, and then one of the rats landed on the guard.

  The blade’s weight tripled in an instant. The constant drag ate through the reservoirs, and the dagger vanished under a mountain of twitching rat-flesh.

  The first chimeras jumped.

  I stepped forward and punched one mid-air with my stone-hardened right fist. The thing crunched and burst, spraying guts in all directions. Missed with my left, another latched onto my sleeve. More landed on my back, legs, arms.

  Panic clawed at the edge of my mind.

  The pack was climbing me, chewing through the dressing gown, trying to reach my skin. Where they managed to tear through the fabric, their sharp little teeth skittered uselessly against my magically hardened skin. Bulletproof, for now.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  It tickled.

  It tickled, it was terrifying, and it was the most disgusting thing I’d ever felt.

  I staggered. Each step crunched through carcasses.

  Images flashed through my mind, my own body buried under this seething, half-living swarm.

  The seconds on the spell were ticking down. Rats had wriggled under the dressing gown and were crawling up my trousers.

  I broke. Collapsed, crushing at least a dozen under me.

  The world dimmed. The screeching and rustling filled my ears, louder than the gunfire. Rats clawed at my ears, my scalp, my eyes.

  Panic won.

  For just a moment.

  But that was enough.

  Enough to ignite something in me, and I jumped to my feet. Ripped the vermin from my face and ears. Scraped them off my head. Tore off the dressing gown.

  They couldn’t grip my bare, stone-hardened torso. It was too smooth. Too tough.

  Two leaps brought me to the door. I burst inside.

  Dozens of rats came in with me, still clinging, still biting. I slammed the door shut, crushing some of them between the hinges. Stamped others flat under my heels. The ones that clung to my trousers, I grabbed them one by one and squeezed like tomatoes.

  The fear gave me strength.

  "Duncan, stay inside!" someone shouted.

  I glanced out the window — just in time to flinch back as a rat smashed against the glass. Our windows were solid, proper enchanted glass. The second and third barely left a mark.

  Outside, the tide was thinning. Shot and spells continued ripping the pack apart.

  I exhaled. Considered dropping stone-skin. Don’t think poison seeped through stone. And the charge was nearly gone anyway...

  Thunk.

  Something feathered slammed into the glass.

  Pigeon brains and dark blood smeared across the surface, beneath it, a fine three-pronged crack.

  Thunk. Another one, this time to the side.

  I stepped back.

  They won’t make it in time. Even now, the old stonework of the house is being pelted with fire and shot, but they won’t kill them all. And my stone-skin is running out!

  No telling how long it’ll last on internal reserve alone.

  Wait, there are reservoirs in the study!

  I bolted upstairs. Behind me, I heard glass crunch and shatter across the floor.

  I flew up the stairs and locked myself in the study.

  Shit, the window!

  I ducked instinctively to the side. Bloody hell, who knows how those things sense me? Maybe they just need to see me. Or maybe someone’s controlling them, in which case, closed curtains would be a dead giveaway of where I’m hiding.

  Instead, I rolled toward the cupboard, yanked down the first box I grabbed, and dived under the desk.

  The reservoir in my ring had gone dry. It had lasted longer than I expected, but now I had to take the spell’s drain directly, like pulling on a jacket that didn’t quite fit, and cinching a belt at the same time. Uncomfortable in a way only magic can be.

  I peeked inside the box and swore.

  Firestones — James Flower’s birthday present. I’d put them there myself. Idiot.

  A scraping noise came from the hallway. I remembered exactly where the earth-charged quartz was stored, stood up, and caught sight of a pigeon at the window. The flying rat spotted me too, and immediately slammed into the glass. The hit was weak. It didn’t even break its skull, just slid down the pane, kicked off the windowsill, and arced back into the air.

  Didn’t get far.

  A shotgun barked somewhere below. Feathers and blood sprayed the sky.

  I grabbed the right box and paused.

  What now?

  Keep stone-skin active until the charge runs out? Hope the clan burns the rest of the bastards down? I’m already covered in poison. One scratch is all it’ll take.

  Then I remembered how recklessly the rats had thrown themselves at me. There it is, a way to draw out the stragglers. And I’ve got just the thing to deal with them.

  Two more pigeons smashed into the window. I ignored them, set the firestones on the desk, grabbed a pen, and pressed so hard the nib cut into the polished wood.

  Three simple runes. My first proper defensive spell, the one that once saved me from Feron’s ghost. Three runes I usually powered with aether, now bound in a rough circle and linked to every reservoir in the box.

  Another pair of pigeons hit the glass. The first one splattered. The second broke through and landed on the desk.

  I stabbed it with the pen, grabbed the box, and kicked out the window.

  Short run-up from the door, one step on the sill, then I dropped like a stone into the garden.

  Stone-skin held. I rolled, leaving behind a trail of flattened corpses, but my legs gave out. Joints, maybe. Maybe bones. Either way, the pain was blinding.

  I stayed on my knees, set the box in front of me, and pressed my palm down on it.

  Above — the pigeons began their dive. They slammed into me, bounced off stone. Each hit left a deepening bruise.

  A hit to the head nearly knocked me out. But then, the rest of the rat horde found me.

  Like a cocoon, they piled on, shielding me from the worst of the pigeons.

  Someone was shouting outside. I couldn’t hear them, the scratching, the squealing, the writhing drowned everything out.

  The skin still held. Seconds were ticking. The reserve was draining. Slower now, but steady. When it dropped below half, I activated the spell on the box.

  No cleansing wave of aether. Instead, flames engulfed me.

  The stench of burned rot hit me like a punch. I have no idea how it looked from the outside, but from inside, it felt like being thrown into a hurricane of fire.

  It howled around me for half a second, long enough to cook my muscles under the stone-skin like duck in clay.

  Thank the gods it didn’t last.

  When it passed, the rats and pigeons dropped off me in scorched chunks.

  In front of me stood a man. Singed. Covered in soot. No eyebrows, no lashes, not a single hair left on his head.

  His expression flickered from concern to fury.

  He pointed a dagger at me and roared:

  "Duncan Magnus Kinkaid!"

  "...Uncle?" I asked.

  Looking closely, he did resemble Bryce. And Granddad. Especially just now.

  "What the bloody hell are you doing, you daft little twat?! You nearly gave me a heart attack!"

  My throat itched, but at least I’d stopped burning. I tried to smile… and realised my left cheek had locked up. My body was going stiff.

  How?

  I was still under stone-skin, wasn’t I?

  My chest tightened, a dull ache setting in, growing sharper with every heartbeat. And the space between those heartbeats stretched longer and longer.

  My vision began to haze like fog, or the smoke from scorched corpses creeping outward.

  "Nothing to say?" Uncle kept roaring. "Tongue-tied now, are you?!"

  "Smoke," I croaked. "Poison..."

  And collapsed sideways, into a pile of charred meat.

  Uncle caught me and propped me up with a knee. I was stiff enough by now that it actually worked, held me more or less upright. He rummaged in his bag and pulled out a syringe.

  "Don’t drink anything!" he barked to someone nearby. "No standard potions. Nick, you’re up."

  Made sense. If Alexandra had used a poison anything like the one her darling boy tried on me back in Farnell, regular brews wouldn’t cut it. Uncle and Nick had clearly come prepared.

  The needle touched my jugular, and bent.

  "Duncan!"

  Ah. Right. I quickly dropped stone-skin, didn’t need to move, just apply a touch of will.

  Strange, the spell had felt different today. Maybe because I was drawing from my own source, or maybe the Ancient Stones had changed something. Either way, I was impressed with the result.

  The bent needle pierced my neck, and fire bloomed down my throat. Pain surged through me. I could feel every bruise, every muscle ablaze. The cheek unfroze first. Then the jaw. The legs came back last.

  "I need a hospital," I said before Uncle could resume his tirade.

  "You need a bloody asylum!" Bryce barked. "One with padded walls!"

  "But it worked," I protested, gesturing at the scorched carcasses.

  He clipped me on the back of the head, harder than Finella ever hits Simon. I nearly face-planted into the disgusting heap in front of me, but caught myself on my hands and knees.

  "Oi! I’m the one they were trying to kill!" I argued. "And I still need a hospital!"

  "Why? So you can start bleeding everywhere again?" Another cuff followed as soon as I lifted my head.

  "Alex..." I began, then bit my tongue.

  "Alexandra, yes." Uncle repeated pointedly for all to hear. "Why didn’t you perform the Ritual of Severing straight away, you daft git?"

  "Things got a bit... hectic," I muttered.

  "Had to go save Logan, right?" Uncle nodded to himself, answering for me. "Did it even cross your mind you were putting your whole family, your whole clan, at risk?"

  "...No."

  I’d thought about Betty and her love potion, but that was about it. And now my whole body was bruised to hell, my legs were a mess.

  "Can I please go to hospital now?"

  "I’m not carrying you!" Uncle said flatly, plonking himself down on a bed of burnt rats. "Donald’s bringing the pickup round. Someone fetch the lad a sheet or something, will you?"

  Hah. I hadn’t even noticed. My clothes had gone up with the rats.

  And my hair...?

  I ran a hand over my head — hit unfamiliar curls. Tiny tufts of charred fluff crumbled to ash in my fingers, but I wasn’t completely bald.

  No eyebrows, no eyelashes. Ah well. They’d grow back.

  I was alive!

  And Alexandra...

  I glanced at the crowd that had gathered near the smoking wreckage. Spotted a couple of shifters. Then remembered Uncle had already mentioned her name.

  I asked carefully:

  "So... what happened to her? Is she dead, or...?"

  "She legged it," Uncle grunted.

  "She what?" I blinked. "But you lot, you handled that werewolf in seconds!"

  "We got her too. Turned out it wasn’t her. It was a chimera."

  "A human one? That’s a hanging offence."

  Uncle gave me a look like I was dim.

  "Like anything else would’ve been on the cards for her?"

  We fell silent. One of the neighbours handed me an old blanket. I wrapped it round my waist. Wasn’t cold, my muscles were still smouldering, but the battered old pickup was already pulling up nearby, promising a hospital bed and some blessed healing brews.

  And if the doctor bans visitors?

  I might just cry with happiness.