It was night at the mansion. I watch Lorcan getting ready. He’s heading out on a “Council mission.” I don’t really know who they are, but since they pay him, I assume they’re something like his employers.

  “The Council is an institution that’s been around for centuries,” Lorcan explains while rummaging through his office. “It keeps demons of all kinds—and rogue mages—in check. Apparently one of our ancestors founded it. Or something like that.”

  “Or something like that?”

  “History details aren’t my strong suit.”

  He seems to find the box he was looking for. I catch a glimpse of something like a chest protector inside—and a… turtleneck?

  “The Council also enforces certain laws so mage families and their associates don’t get out of hand,” he continues.

  “There are mage families?”

  “Uh… yes,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re living with one right now. We’re just not that many.”

  Without any ceremony, he pulls off the shirt he was wearing. He’s completely exposed. I see it. Just a bit. Defined muscles from training, burns and scars that don’t look like they came from anything normal.

  I look away. Too late. Maybe on purpose.

  It’s not the moment, but he’s dangerously close to a ten out of ten on my scale.

  I watch as he puts on the chest protector, then the turtleneck over it, along with a couple of additional plates on his shoulders. The turtleneck looks like it’s made of some kind of elastic material.

  “Officially, there are five major families,” Lorcan says, now digging through a fridge. “We’re one of them. And each family provides a weapon.”

  “Weapon as a metaphor?”

  “No.”

  “Oh. Like what you mentioned before. ‘Special forces.’”

  “Exactly.”

  He pulls about five of those nuclear-looking vials out of the fridge. I still remember the smell.

  “What are those?” I ask.

  “Electrolyte vials.”

  “I smelled one once. It smelled like fuel…”

  “Mixed with berries,” Lorcan finishes. “Yeah. Not great. But it does the job. There are other flavors besides berry, but it’s the most tolerable.”

  “What job?”

  “Keeping me alive.”

  “Oh.”

  He shrugs.

  “Magic isn’t free. The body always pays. Energy doesn’t come from nowhere, and the first point of impact is the body—like an organic resistor. Too much flow or bad handling, and it burns. These”—he shakes one of the vials—“buy us valuable operational minutes. That’s it.”

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  I don’t really understand. In fact, I understand nothing at all. Which is the worst part.

  “Let’s see,” Lorcan says, counting off. “Ceramic armor plates. Electrolyte vials. Fire-resistant clothing.” He stretches the fabric of the mesh at his neck. “I’m only missing one thing.”

  He opens a desk drawer and pulls out a pair of leather gloves. They don’t look special. Black, with a metal plate on the back. He puts them on.

  “Spark gloves,” he says, showing me. “I just have to move them and—”

  He makes a specific gesture, like snapping his fingers.

  Flame bursts into his hands.

  I step back without realizing it. Lorcan smiles like a kid showing off all his new toys. With another gesture, the flame vanishes. I feel the pressure shift again.

  “What happened to ‘magic isn’t free’?” I ask.

  “Operational cost for the demonstration,” he replies, grinning.

  His watch starts beeping. An alarm.

  “Well. I have to go.”

  We head down to the garage. His mother joins us. Lorcan looks at me.

  “See you in class tomorrow,” he says.

  “Be careful,” I reply.

  “Always am.”

  I can feel Elisabeth smiling.

  The beast wakes with a roar and then launches itself toward the horizon. He loves doing that. He’s a show-off.

  One last thought crosses my mind.

  “Magic is amazing, isn’t it?” I ask.

  Elisabeth laughs softly.

  “It's interesting,” she corrects.

  “Do you think someone like me could learn?” I ask. “Without breaking anything?”

  This time she looks at me with real attention. Not amused. Not indulgent.

  “Maybe you’re closer than you think.”

  The investigators had been circling this psychiatric hospital for weeks. Analyzing movement, vital-energy flows, disappearances in the area. Once demonic activity was confirmed, a bureaucrat reviewed the findings and decided what resources to request from the Council.

  This time, a weapon was required.

  The assigned mission is simple. Enter the psychiatric hospital. Clear any obstacles in the way—possibly a horde or two, considering it’s a hospital and the disappearance count is high. Eliminate the primary threat. Possibly a stabilized host already generating its own demons.

  I can’t remember the last time it was .

  I arrive at the location. The moment I step out of the car, I feel the cold air and the stench of rotting flesh. Demons have clearly made this place their home. Still, something keeps me uneasy. There’s something else here. Something different. I can’t quite place it.

  I choose to ignore it.

  I check my vials one last time and enter through the front door, expecting a warm welcome.

  The air inside is frozen. I can see my breath. I hear wet sounds. Things dragging themselves along the floor. The first possessed emerge. They don’t last long—some fire here, a few air-pressure cuts there. Still, I’m not sensing a significant threat. Did the Council really panic over a handful of minor hosts?

  I see a horde approaching. Finally, a challenge. But it’s still crowd control. Nothing serious. Out of habit more than necessity, I take a sip from the first vial. It burns going down.

  “High octane. My favorite.”

  I keep moving forward. Steady. Unhurried. I can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong. This feels routine. I expected… more possessed.

  I stop wasting time. I sweep through every room, burning demons as I go. I leave a trail of charred bodies behind me, barely thinking about the poor cleanup crews who’ll have to come in later. I still feel like at least half the demons that should be here are missing.

  One room left.

  “It’s always the last room.”

  I finish the rest of the first vial and step inside.

  There’s… nothing.

  No signs of demonic corruption on the walls. No tentacles. No sticky residue. The room is clean—except for a hole in the ceiling where moonlight pours through.

  I step closer to inspect it.

  That’s when I see it clearly.

  A small demon, slowly burning away in golden fire.

  A sword of light holds it in place, radiating that irritating incense scent the reports always mention.

  Ashes litter the floor. Likely what remained of the host body.

  “Could it be…?”

  I don’t let the thought finish.

  I kick the light-sword apart and burn what’s left of the demon myself. I activate my watch.

  “Kestrel Weapon. Mission complete,” I say. “Operation time: twenty minutes. Area clear for cleanup team.”

  I look at the fragments of the light-sword scattering in the wind.

  “Be on alert for possible interference from the Faith,” I add.