I imagine this is what a steak feels like after the pan’s done with it. Every muscle in my body ached. Every nerve buzzed with exhaustion. And I wasn’t even allowed a painkilling potion. Miranda said we had to deal with the legs first: hairline fracture in the right shin, dislocation in the left ankle.

  She didn’t hold back, either. Strap between the teeth, two smooth, sharp movements and, for a few seconds, I was in heaven. Then someone remembered I’d missed my stop, and yanked me straight back to hell.

  I nearly bit through the bloody strap. And when I finally unclenched my jaw, the doctor forced down my throat a thick, slippery brew with the most stomach-turning stench imaginable. Bone potion. Basically thick bouillon made from bones, tendons, and marrow, boiled for bloody ever, then spiced with magic and piss.

  Useful, I get it. Still tasted like snot.

  The gag reflex had me clenching again and again, each time sending waves of pain through already bruised muscles.

  My stomach finally settled twenty minutes later, by which point, I’d been fitted with two perfectly applied splints and started receiving visitors.

  And not just friends.

  The whole bloody family turned up. Everyone except cousin Evan, who was lying on the floor below.

  I really, really wanted to tell them all to bugger off. But I held my tongue, partly because they genuinely cared, and partly because I was playing the wounded-hero card to trigger the aunties’ mothering instincts. Which meant it’d be Uncle Bryce getting the earfuls, not me.

  He’d get back at me later, no doubt. But better him than the aunts.

  Sally and Simon came to apologise for "misbehaving." I suspect they were strongly encouraged. Kettle, at least, only opened his mouth after Finella kicked him in the shin. His apology sounded about as sincere as a cat’s meow.

  Sally did better, but I wasn’t fooled, so I guilt-tripped them into promising to clean the house. No way out of it, really, not after I solemnly apologised for dousing them in blood.

  Under the stern eyes of the family, Sally and Simon nodded. No one else wanted to get too close anyway, the stink clinging to me was enough to clear a room.

  Bryce was actually the first to flee, claimed he had work.

  Reality? He was dodging the aunts.

  Funnily enough, I was the only one who ended up in hospital after the rat fiasco. Everyone else got by with a shot of antidote, took care of the poison and burned out any early signs of vampirism. Didn’t do much for healing, though.

  To be fair, they hadn’t given me anything better here. Miranda told me to tough it out until morning, when Eugene would come check the legs and see if anything more could be done. Until then, no moving them.

  Same reason they kept Logan out. He was ready to carry me everywhere himself, didn’t care about the smell either.

  Miranda did.

  The doctor didn’t want to waste potions chasing them out, she simply ordered the nurses to wash me. Humiliating, I’ll admit, especially for someone raised to take care of himself. Humiliating and painful. They had to redo the splints after, and move me to another room, the old one still reeked.

  Even after the whole bathing ordeal, I wasn’t allowed a moment’s peace. Bryce came back, probably too scared to go home, and told me how my blood ended up in Alexandra’s hands.

  Courtesy of Betty.

  My ex had apparently genuinely tried to brew a love potion, though she only had the skill to produce a strong, crude variant. It would've been enough to get me into her bed, but by morning, I’d have left with the same level of enthusiasm I'd arrived with.

  Not bad if you’re trying to get pregnant.

  Which Betty wasn’t — not yet. Didn’t want to waste her youth on nappies. She needed something gentler. Longer-lasting. And that would have to be brewed in a lab, where they’d ask questions. Especially since the head of the lab is Aunt Ailie...

  So Betty went to a semi-independent expert: Alexandra.

  She promised her eternal friendship, influence, anything she could manage. Support in booting her husband off the council, smearing his mistress, or the opposite, befriending said mistress, then spying on her.

  Betty wasn’t worried about her own charm. The only thing she doubted was whether the blood was still viable. But she was absolutely certain the witch wouldn’t pass up a deal like that.

  And if things went south, she’d have time to destroy the evidence. Alexandra wouldn’t have anything on her. No proof, just words and a smudged reputation.

  Unfortunately for Betty, Alexandra did take the blood. Just didn’t use it the way she promised.

  Nicholas’s observer had seen my ex visiting Alexandra’s house. Boily’s standby team took discreet action, kept things quiet, but couldn’t figure out what it meant.

  No one had entered my hospital room, and no one reported any blood on the walls. So the visit never escalated past "mildly suspicious." They didn’t want to spook the girl, decided to wait for orders.

  Only, a pigeon got to Alexandra before we did.

  Bryce and Nicholas assumed it was a status update, probably confirming that the plan to kill Sharon had failed. They hoped the witch would respond, let them trace the chimera. But in the meantime, they figured: may as well shake Betty down.

  And that’s when Uncle found out exactly what she’d delivered to Alexandra, and immediately called for a raid.

  Looking back, maybe I was lucky. That raid is what triggered the rat attack.

  There were more of them than McLilly had seen in Feron’s basement. Most had been buried outside the perimeter, right under the outer garden fences, often used as lines for magical defence wards. That kind of placement meant they weren’t just a private arsenal, they were part of a larger attack. I reckon Alexandra made the decision to repurpose them against me on the spot.

  She clearly hadn’t meant to send them in broad daylight. At night, before anyone had time to react, the swarm would already be battering down my walls. The house wards might’ve warned me, but knowing me, I’d have tried to handle it quietly. Most likely, I’d have started prepping silently, thrown up some spells, grabbed my pistol, and lost precious time.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  Same for the neighbours. But thanks to the raid team, the chimeras took some decent losses before they ever got to me. Once I’d squeezed every last bit of info out of Uncle, he had to finally head home. And I was left to rot in hospital.

  I couldn’t sleep.

  My body throbbed. The ceiling made me irrationally angry. The window view required contorting my neck at stupid angles. And every little noise sounded like scratching, like tiny rat claws on stone.

  I stared at the ceiling for hours. Felt like exam week with Granddad. Exhausted but wide awake. Then, the door creaked open.

  I turned my head sharply, raised a fist, ready to activate stone-skin. I’d recharged the reservoir ring overnight, and even refilled my source. But whoever came in, moved too fast. I didn’t even get a chance to shout.

  The figure was already in striking range, dagger in hand. The blade caught a glint of starlight as I rolled off the bed, straight into the wall, which was definitely two metres further away a second ago.

  Then, someone killed the lights. Total blackness. I hadn’t seen anything like it since Granddad started feeding me potions to improve my vision.

  I ran along the wall, and promptly slammed my forehead into something hard. Ringing filled my ears. And through it, I heard the sounds of a scuffle — short and messy.

  "Don’t make a sound!" someone hissed. "Don’t light anything! Are you mad?!" another voice whispered back.

  "I can’t see the bloody dagger! … Hold him, like that!"

  "Wait, it’s Robert! Hey, mate, what the hell..."

  "He’s not himself, gentlemen."

  That voice I recognised — Brian McLilly. A sharp smack rang out, followed by twin hisses:

  "Shhhh!"

  At last, I remembered to open my third eye. Immediately, I saw the runes on the floor, a cube-shaped metal-magic trap, holding me in place. Apparently, for my own good.

  "Oi, you lot..." came Robert Feron’s startled voice. Which was quickly replaced by a confused grunt.

  "Easy, lad, it’s Nick Boily," our security man whispered. "Do you know what you’re doing here?"

  "I... Alexandra said I had to kill Duncan. That wasn’t her, was it?" Robert’s guess didn’t land the way he hoped.

  "Most likely, it was her."

  "No way!"

  "Shhh!"

  "...No way," Robert repeated, quieter. "You mean she betrayed the clan?"

  I was finally calm enough to notice my legs. They hurt, of course, but not as badly as I’d expected. The splints helped. I could even stand, though sitting was still preferable.

  "Ahem," I coughed softly. "You can drop the trap now."

  "It’s for your protection!" the third member of the team whispered back.

  When the magical walls melted away, I dropped straight onto the bed and recognised the speaker — Donald McLal. Oddly, he wasn’t glowing with enchantments in the subtle layer. In fact, none of the men holding Robert showed up at all in the thin realms.

  "Duncan," Robert whispered. "I didn’t mean to — honestly!"

  "Where’s Alexandra?" Boily cut in.

  "No idea. I was just told to stab Duncan with the dagger."

  Donald picked up the blade and said the obvious:

  "It’s enchanted."

  "Let me see it," I said.

  "Oh sure! Maybe I should just kill you right here, we don’t even know what that thing does!"

  "Fine, just hold it. I’ll look."

  Granddad trained me in the basics since I was a kid, and a year under Harry had taught me plenty more. The enchantment fed on ether and blood, like my own dagger, but the runes were different. Part of the spell was etched into the blade, that bit I could read easily. The rest was embedded in the reservoirs, which was trickier.

  First thing I saw, it wasn’t keyed to a specific target. There was no blood signature in the reservoir, nothing linking it to a user or a victim. But there was a trace in the ether crystal, faint, like a ghost of intent.

  Only one scheme made sense to me.

  "It’s a signal dagger. If you stab someone in up to the mannaz rune..." I pointed at the symbol halfway up the blade, "...it sends a ping to a linked amulet."

  "Your body?" Nicholas asked.

  "Doubt it," I replied.

  Donald turned to Nicholas. "Think Archie can pick up the trace?"

  Archibald Feron was a painfully underwhelming shifter, at first glance. His spirit was a basset hound, all floppy ears, stubby legs and permanently mournful eyes.

  But appearances deceive. Bassets were still hunting dogs, their noses were legendary. And a shifter-basset? They could scent ether.

  Still... if Harry were here, I’d have preferred to give the blade to him. My own level...

  "Wait," I said sharply.

  Let’s be honest, Archie’s chances of picking up a single magical impulse were next to none. What’s he going to do? Point at a wall and shrug? That’s my level of accuracy.

  But the presence of a similar dagger changed things.

  "My gear should be around here somewhere," I said. "My dagger — I need it. Also: painkillers, ether reservoirs, blood reservoirs, and real blood — any kind, it’s a hospital. Should be some around. Chalk. Or something I can write with on the floor."

  "What are you planning?" Boily asked, suspicious.

  "A compass."

  "Brian, hold onto Robert."

  "I’m fine now," Feron said quickly. "I’m not going to attack anyone."

  Boily ignored him. "Get him the blood and the dagger."

  Within a minute, I had everything I needed, most importantly, the painkiller. Finally, the pain began to ebb.

  They’d replaced the chalk with some dentist’s tool, a hooked metal thing halfway between a crooked nail and a scalpel. Not ideal, but great for scratching the floor. I just had to be extra careful, unlike chalk, you couldn’t erase a mistake.

  I’d studied tracking spells quite a bit, especially after messing up a whole section of the Farnell city archives and being forced to restore it under Harry’s supervision.

  This time, I wasn’t worried about damaging the floor. I carved a circle, nested an octagon inside, then a square. Set the runes, drew the sigils of light, laid out the reservoirs. Placed the jar of preserved blood in the centre, then summoned my dagger, making it float and slowly spin above the setup.

  I held two large reservoirs in my hands, ready to feed the spell once the dagger’s built-in ones ran dry.

  "...Oh," I said aloud, as it hit me.

  "What!?" snapped Boily.

  "She’ll ditch the amulet the moment she gets the signal."

  "Why?" asked the security chief.

  "Because keeping it would be stupid."

  "You think Alexandra thinks rationally?" Boily waved at Robert. "After all her brilliant plans — this!"

  "Oi!" Robert huffed. "I was on combat enhancers! Plus something for speed and night vision!"

  "Yeah, yeah," Nicholas waved him off.

  "After all her failures, she still managed to slip away from you," I pointed out. "She’ll drop the amulet."

  "Donald didn’t bring up Archie for nothing.” Boily said. “He’s on duty with the squad tonight."

  "Well then, great! Stick the dagger in the jar."

  Boily lowered the blade into the wide mouth of the container. It sank to the hilt, disturbing the surface, a few drops splashed onto the runes, triggering a wave of blood magic that surged outward.

  The glow rolled to the edge of the outer circle, turned aether-blue, and rippled back inwards. The returning light lit the jar like a ruby lantern, passed through the foreign dagger, and fired upward in a bright burst, hitting my own dagger, still spinning above.

  The blade lit up, stopped turning, and started trembling, like the needle of a compass, pointing straight west of Avoc.

  "Bloody hell!" Boily exclaimed. "It’s working!" He reached for the dagger.

  "Oi! What are you doing?" I stopped him.

  "What do you mean, what am I doing? How do I take it?"

  "Only with me. I’m maintaining the spell."

  "Duncan, for God’s sake! Not again!"

  "Didn’t even think of it," I admitted. "If I had, I’d have come armed. Look, I swear, no heroics. We find the spot where she dropped the amulet, and then you take me straight home. After that, it’s all yours."

  "Bryce is going to kill me," Nicholas groaned to Donald. "Fine. Grab him. Let’s get him in the car."

  "Careful with my arms!" I warned.

  The mages lifted me under the shoulders and carried me out as gently as they could.

  Martin, the car, was already waiting. They buckled me into the front passenger seat. Boily took the wheel. The roadster squealed and leapt forward like a shot. The Coopers with the rest of the team couldn’t keep up, but Nicholas wasn’t worried.

  Even before we left the clan district, he said to Donald: "It’s the station. I know it’s the bloody train station."

  And he was right.

  The dagger’s shaking point led us straight there. The square was mostly empty, cold wind swept across the paving stones. A lone copper stood shivering beside the booth. A few cabs idled near the entrance.

  Avoc was asleep, and the station stood as its lone beacon in the night. The refurbished stained glass gleamed especially bright — the same one the werewolf had hurled Chris McLilly through.

  Nicholas made a half-loop around the building, and the dagger turned over 180 degrees. We came back to the main entrance. That’s where I spotted the small bin behind the column.

  The amulet, a single earring, was buried there. Nicholas found it within seconds. The message was clear, and loud: I’m gone. Come find me. She was probably miles away by now.

  "Stay in the car," Boily advised. "I’ll have a look around."

  "I doubt she’s still here, but I’d wait for backup, just in case. She might not be alone."

  Boily snorted and pointed at the road, where three pairs of headlights were approaching. Empty streets meant it could only be our people.

  "You’d never have waited," he muttered. "You’d find some excuse to get yourself into trouble."

  Totally unfair, in my opinion. I never set out looking for trouble.