'A Hunter and His Prey' Chapter Four- Nemesis

“It’ll take too long to get to Desanadron on foot, or on horse,” Jonah wheezed as he jogging behind the stampeding Simpa. “It’s clear on the other side of the continent. It would take a month on foot, and two weeks on horse. Where are we going?”

 “I have a business associate who owes me a favor. We can get a scroll of Teleportation from him. He does a lot of traveling, so he’s bound to have one that will take us to Desanadron in the blink of an eye.” Portenda took another turn down an unclean, bum-littered alleyway. Grubby, dirt covered hands reached out for purchase of his money pouches, and he delivered a few slaps and one harsh kick to a Human vagrant’s groin to keep them at bay.

“And you know where to find him at this hour?”

“Whenever he comes to Ja-Wen, he goes to the same place at night.”

Jonah noticed that they were headed for the manor district, where the heads of the city resided in upscale houses and manors. The streets were suddenly very solid under his feet, and Jonah spared a quick glance down at the cobblestone, looking up just in time to collide with a torch post.

He fell back in a heap, groaning and rubbing his quickly swelling forehead where he had slammed into the metal pole. The speed he was running at had been considerable, and he was certain that he had given himself a concussion. Portenda hauled him to his feet, and walked ahead at a pace that was brisk but nothing that Jonah couldn’t handle.

The Bounty Hunter stalked through the streets for a while, and then suddenly darted into a set of bushes on the edge of a High Council member’s property.

Jonah looked around. The next instant, he was being hauled through the air into a thicket of bushes.

Portenda set him down, and put a finger to his lips.

Jonah nodded, understanding the need for stealth. Trespassing on a High Councilman’s property was punishable by a maximum of twelve to fourteen months in the Ja-Wen prison.

Portenda checked his timepiece a couple of times over the half hour that they sat and waited, covered and surrounded by greenery.

Jonah looked at the bush, and clipped off a few leaves as well as a twig. He opened the yellow rucksack, and found nothing inside. What the devil? He caught Portenda’s attention and pointed into the bag.

The big Simpa leaned in close and whispered to him, “Think about what you want to take out, and tap the clip before opening it.”

Jonah thought of his sample collection vials, tapped the clip, and opened the bag. And there they were, just as Portenda had said they would be.

A useful item, he thought. Hope he lets me keep it. He placed the leaves in one vial, the twig in another. After all, this sort of bush didn’t grow naturally anywhere near Ja-Wen, and he wanted to analyze the plant at the next opportunity.

After another ten minutes, someone jumped into the bushes with them.

Jonah nearly screamed as a white bearded Gnome, wearing dark tan leathers, a white tunic shirt, a brace of lock picks and other thief’s tools, landed between him and the Simpa.

The Gnome’s eyes went wide for a moment, then Portenda clamped a huge, hairy hand over the Gnome’s mouth, and dragged him flailing and kicking out onto the street.

Jonah following closely behind, praying that nobody was watching them.

Portenda put the Gnome down.

As the Gnome spun to face him, he whipped a throwing knife so fast at the Simpa that Jonah almost saw a vapor trail behind it. What speed, he marveled. But Portenda had whirled in a circle, and when he came to a stop, he had the weapon not in his arm or chest, but between his fingers on his left hand. He twirled it around a couple of times, and lofted it back to the Gnome, who smiled and clapped his hands, the sound of it echoing through the barren streets of the manor district.

“Well met, Portenda the Quiet,” the Gnome thief said.

Jonah recognized him now—it was none other than Lee Toren, the self-professed master pickpocket and gentleman.

“Who’s the lad?” The gnome pointed at Jonah unceremoniously.

“His name is Jonah Staples.” Portenda cracked his knuckles. “How have you been, Lee Toren?”

Lee Toren shrugged his shoulders and smiled. “I suppose I’ve been all roit.” Lee stepped towards a bench backed by a small flower garden that was cared for by High Councilman Pfnog and his wife. Being the only Werewolf Councilman in Ja-Wen, Pfnog tried to be as friendly as possible, and had placed a bench near the garden, and ordered the guards in the area to protect the people by watching for miscreants.

“And my uncle,” Portenda asked, to which Jonah raised an eyebrow.

“His mum’s brover, lad,” Lee said, catching Jonah’s attention. “Amon is doing well, too. ‘is arm acts up now an’ agin, but it ain’t noffin he worries ‘imself about.”

Lee started to his feet but Portenda hefted a huge, heavy foot against the Gnome’s chest, gently pushing him back onto the bench.

“Ah, come off it then. Wha’ you want wif me?” Lee Toren might have been a coward, yes. A liar, certainly. But he most assuredly was not an idiot. He didn’t move a muscle as Portenda applied pressure with his bare foot.

“You know you still owe me/” Ice hung like shards of glass to Portenda’s words. The smell of cold sweat filled the area, and Jonah saw that both the Gnome and the guards in the distance, who now stood directly under a torch lamp, were sweating bullets. The guards apparently knew who they were looking at across the flower garden. The two men had beads of nervous sweat across their fine Elven features, and the faint sound of muttering fluttered into Jonah’s ear. He couldn’t make out what they were saying, but the tone was one of nervousness, the sound conveyed with an edge of real, mortal fear. The two armed Elves beat a slow, cautious retreat.

“Yes, yes I do at that,” Lee said.

Portenda took his foot off of the gnome. “Guards gone, lad?” he asked Jonah.

“Oh, you thought ‘e was serious wif me just now,” Lee asked, giving Portenda a broad grin.

Portenda gave him a quiver of a grin back, but his face fell immediately back into his usual unreadable countenance.

“It’s a rule of moin ta never discuss business near lawmen,” Lee explained. “S’the only reason I can think of fer the Quiet ‘ere to plant his big stinkin’ foot on me. So,” Lee said, putting down his rucksack. “What ye’ need?”

“Teleportation scrolls,” Portenda replied in his whispery voice. “To Desanadron.”

Jonah removed his boots for a minute, testing the feel of the cobblestone beneath his feet. They were chilly and gritty, loose dirt and cement from between and beneath the cobbles scraping roughly against the soles of his feet. How did he do it all the time, he thought, referring to Portenda running around without footwear.

“I fink I’ve got some around.” Lee Toren could be heard muttering, but Jonah was busy removing masonry from the bottom of his feet. With the offending stone out of his skin, Jonah readjusted his boots, and walked over to the Simpa and Gnome.

“You know,” Lee said, “I remember once having a similar meeting to this one a long toim ago. Big fellah, friend of moin, met me in a tavern wif a relatively scrawny Cuyotai. Not as small as you, mind you,” Lee amended, waggling a finger at Jonah. “And the boy turned out ta be tough as nails. I’m not sure why, but I just seem to ‘ave a knack fer meetin’ people loik you, Portenda. And eventually, ye bring around somebody loik this.”

He opened several concealed pockets in his rucksack, cleverly sewn into the inner lining of the sack, in case of search and seizure. “Ah, here they are,” he exclaimed, standing and holding out two scrolls. “Two tickets to Desanadron, gents. And, uh, I believe this makes us square, does it?”

He smiled sheepishly at the Bounty Hunter, who merely nodded and snatched one of the scrolls from Lee’s left hand. He rolled it open, and looked it over. He then handed it to Jonah. “Make sure it’s authentic.”

Lee’s face scrunched up and turned beet red. “Hey now! I wouldn’t fleece you loik that! They’re the real deal, honest. I stole ‘em from a bona fide Enchanter I did.”

Jonah rolled the scroll open, and attempted a quick translation of the old Elvish script. The writing itself was fairly recent, but the most potent scrolls were best written in the old tongues, and someone had clearly been going for effectiveness rather than appearances with this scroll. Loosely translated, it read, ‘Swiftest travel, fast as light, let the reader of this scroll take flight. Off to go, from parts beyond, take them now, to Desanadron.’ Satisfied with the authenticity of the scroll, Jonah rolled it up.

“It’s all right, Portenda. They’re the real deal. And very well made,” he added, feeling the scroll with his thumb and forefinger. Written on dried out sheep’s skin. Very good work, made by someone who knew exactly what they were doing.

“That is excellent,” Portenda replied, his voice slightly lilting with satisfaction. “Lee, I think you’re right. We’re even, now. But don’t think I won’t be calling on you again some day in the future.” He took the other scroll from Lee’s right hand, and opening it as well. “Hm. Good. They’re exactly the same.”

“You do know how to use one of them, yes?” Lee looked around the area for guards again.

“I’ve used them before, Lee. I don’t mean to be curt with you, but we must be going. Now.” He rolled the scroll open and held it out with both hands.

He gripped the ends hard, and shook the scroll; an instant later, there was nothing left, save a wisp of smoke where he had stood.

Jonah fumbled with his own scroll, and repeated the process. He had never used Teleportation spells or scrolls before. As reality melted around him, he found himself being hurtled through a tunnel of some sort, screaming all the while.

* * * *

To the best of her knowledge, Eileen Staples had never done anything to offend anyone, except, perhaps, for Natasha Mikal, an Illeck girl who fancied herself the most beautiful young woman in the world. Eileen had gone on a rather long rant at Natasha about how only Illeck men and Humans with extremely low standards would ever be attracted to her, and the two had gone down in a heap of flailing slaps and tugging of hair. It had been declared the most spectacular catfight the neighborhood had seen in a long time.

But she and Natasha had long-since made up and even if they hadn’t, that hardly warranted the assault the drifter who had come to stay with her family made on her. Wearing an ivory mask, the man’s hot breath had wakened her in the middle of the night.

She had put up a hell of a fight until the man had slashed her chest with a dagger that carried a hint of blue liquid on the tip. Then she’d gone drowsy, and stumbled around the room, knocking over this thing and that as she tried to find her balance. Her field of vision had blurred and an overpowering sense of disorientation swept over her body and mind as she tried to find a grip on something.

The ivory masked stranger had waited as she flailed around and fell over, toppled like a rag doll.

She had awakened, sore and stiff in her joints in a chamber only slightly larger than her bedroom at home, however far away home was. Eileen couldn’t be certain how far she’d gone, but she had felt like she had slept for days.

There were no windows in her personal prison cell, just a floor and ceiling made of steel slabs, bolted together to prevent potential escape, and four walls of similar material. Aside from the cot and a table made entirely of metal, and a single steel folding chair that lay on its side from one of her fits, the room was barren.

A slot in the bottom of the door opened, and a tray of food and a water skin were passed inside before the slot shut again.

Eileen shuffled toward the tray like a trapped mouse, unsure if touching the food would give her a jolt of lightning, or the sustenance she required. With no windows, and no timepiece, she had been trying to measure her time by meals. This had been the tenth meal given since she had awoken. If the man, or creature, whatever the masked menace was, operated on the same sort of schedule as her parents, then there would be four hours between each meal, fourteen between every third and fourth meal. Trying to think within reason, that would mean she had been in this dreadful place for three days, and part of a morning.

Her father, she knew, would be busying himself with hating himself for allowing his darling daughter to be abducted, and petitioning his former colleagues for their aid in apprehending the villain.

Eileen focused on the food a few feet in front of her, the aroma of well-prepared sweet meats and freshly baked bread filling the room. As it had been every time, it was homemade food, not just some slop that had been thrown together. This raised questions in her mind. She would have imagined that she would be bound and gagged when she awoke, kept in some dank cellar, filled with snakes or scorpions like she had read in her books. Then again, they were works of fiction, she thought to herself.

This treatment almost made the kidnapping seem personal in a way. Not one of her meals contained a dish or food that she didn’t care for. And the cot had been well made and covered with a thick, pink, down-feather filled comforter. It was as though the mysterious abductor knew her and had gone to great lengths to make her comfortable.

She picked up the tray and took it gently over to the table, picking up the chair and sitting down, then picking slowly at the food.

As she finished her humble meal, using the bread in slices to put the meat on for little sandwiches, the door slid open.

The masked man, wearing the same black leather cloak and formal lord’s clothes as when he had showed up at her parents’ doorstep, stood in the doorway.

“I trust you are doing well,” the man rasped from behind his ivory mask. “I have tried my best to make you comfortable.”

He knocked aside the food tray aside as Eileen hurled it at him.

“That’s no way to treat your host,” he rasped again, the sound like a man trying to speak through water in his throat.

“Why am I here,” Eileen asked, her voice trembling as she stood and backed away. “What are you? What is this place, and why have you brought me here?”

A wave of nausea washed over her as the masked stranger took two long, powerful strides closer, the ivory mask catching the faint candlelight from the burning wax on the circular table. He looked more phantasm than humanoid, but fear, Eileen knew, had a way of warping one’s perceptions.

“My dear,” rasped the masked man, picking up her fallen chair as she sat on the edge of the bed. His eyes, visible for the first time to Eileen through the slits in his mask, were vibrant blue and clear, and held a sad, wounded quality.

Her abductor, as she had referred to him in her better moods, might not be a completely horrible person after all. “Years ago, six to be exact, I had a family. A wife, whose beauty could hardly be rivaled. Except by one as lovely as yourself,” he amended, giving Eileen a once-over. “I had four bright, energetic children, the oldest about to go off to join a Monk monastery and complete her training in the martial arts. We didn’t have much, but we were content with what we had, so long as we were together.” The masked man choked back tears and sobs.

“My goodness,” Eileen whispered. “What happened to you and your family? Are they not here as well?”

Ocean blue eyes peered out from behind the ivory mask at her, more tears welling up.

“Our home was a two story house, seven miles west of the Allenian Hills. We had a small plot of farmland, which I tended with my wife in order to make a living at market in Manewa, the only free city in the Allenians. The Khan and Simpa clans allow other Races free passage to the city of Manewa, and we made a trip once a week to sell our produce there. In addition, as an Alchemist, I sold potions and powders at market, making the majority of our money with sales of my poisons.

“But the road to Manewa, one week, had been clogged with other merchant traffic, and so I led my wife and children off the free road, so that we might get around and into the city without delay. The children loved to play in Manewa, because every Race is represented there, and they enjoyed learning the unique games children of other Races play. My children were like that, Miss. They were always curious, and very open-minded. But as open-minded as they were, and as kind and gentle as my lovely wife and I were, their curiosity quickly became our collective terror.

“We had strayed farther from the free road than we had wanted to, and when we came over the crest of a hill, we found ourselves staring at a roving pack of Khan Hunters.” The masked man straightened, standing to his feet and walking toward the door. His gaunt frame was outlined a moment later by torchlight coming from the outside hallway. “The tiger-men are a cruel and vicious Race, incapable of mercy or understanding. Brutes and savages, all of them!” The masked Alchemist slammed a gloved fist into the wall beside the doorway, and a strange symbol flared to life next to the door, a rush of force blowing through the room and illuminating the steel walls and floor for a brief moment. When the light faded, Eileen found that a rose bush had sprouted from the wall.

“What, happened then,” she ventured in a mousy whisper.

The masked Alchemist turned and looked at her, his eyes distant, lost in the memories of years gone by.

“Years have passed, miss, but I remember it as if it happened yesterday. The Khan pack assaulted us, tearing the throats of my wife and oldest daughter, and breaking my other children’s spines over their knees. I managed to escape thanks to the Focus Sites of Alchemy, making myself disappear. I remained invisible, bodiless, scentless, soundless all to them. When a few minutes passed and they could not find me, they left, not bothering to dispose of my family’s bodies.

When they left, I buried my family, opening the ground with my Focus Sites and closing it over their torn bodies.” Suddenly, his head snapped up, and his eyes gleamed with madness. “But I have spent years studying, trying to find a way to bring them back. And I found one, miss, oh yes, I found one! You will help me in this. I have discovered a way to make a person’s body into the body of another, perfectly matched to be whomever I want them to be. I shall return my wife from the grave.”

Eileen’s heart sank, and she realized with horror what the masked madman intended.

“Your flesh shall become my beloved’s, and your soul shall be removed, to make certain that I can recreate her in every way. Her personality, her likes, dislikes, and her whole being shall replace your own. I shall have my wife back, and then, my children!” He grabbed the door and pulling it tightly shut behind him.

The slot in the door opened once more, and Eileen could just barely hear his parting words over her own pounding heart. “Nothing can stop this transformation. I shall have my family back.”

* * * *

When the rushing sensation finally passed, there was a flash of light, and Jonah found himself standing in the familiar streets of Desanadron.

Portenda knelt in a predatory crouch next to him, panting heavily.

Jonah put one hand on the proud Bounty Hunter’s shoulder, but Portenda shrugged him off. “I’m fine,” he said evenly, standing erect once again. “I’ve never gotten used to it is all.”

Jonah nodded. “Can’t disagree with you there. That was terrible.” Though he still felt queasy, he also felt relieved and grateful—he was standing on home turf, a city so familiar to him that he recognized the area they had arrived in as Craftsman’s Square. It was a section of the enormous city devoted entirely to craftsmen, from smiths to Alchemists like himself. Craftsman’s Square was also home to the city’s only Beastmasters, a pair of Lizardman brothers who owned a stable on Silver Street. They trained and sold beasts of all sorts, and were the kind of folks who didn’t mind if someone just came in to browse and chat with them. They weren’t purely businessmen, and often offered to train the common pets of the citizens in the city for a fee of one gold piece. Good men, all in all, Jonah thought.

“My eyes do surely deceive me, for I know that can nay be Jonah Staples,” called a gruff but familiar voice.

Portenda and Jonah spun around to find a smiling Dwarf, all rough edges and muscles, holding his smithy hammer head-down on the ground. The Dwarven man had a short, well-kept beard—a sign of Dwarven youth—that was as red as blood from a fresh wound. His eyes were purest brown, a raw, earthen quality in his countenance that reflected well his profession and personality.

“Boris Rockmight, son of Morek, it is truly a pleasure to see you again.” Jonah stepped forward and leaning down to embrace the Dwarven blacksmith. From heavy clap on the back, Jonah coughed roughly, and stood away from the powerful Dwarf. “I wish I had time to talk, but we’re in a bit of a hurry, my friend and I,” he said in a rush.

“Not many good reasons to use a Teleportation scroll otherwise, I’d imagine.” Boris Rockmight had inherited his gruff father’s distrust of all things magical. Where his father had been a noble Boxer and leader of Traithrock, the capital of the Dwarven territories, Boris had followed the path of a Soldier for many years until he discovered a talent for making weapons and armors. Leaving the Classes of Tamalaria behind, he had moved to Desanadron, where he was respected as one of the finest smiths in the western regions.

Part of his reasoning for changing careers was that he could never equal his father’s accomplishments on the field of battle. Morek Rockmight had been one of the heroes of the War of Vandross, fighting alongside the Dread Knight, Byron of Sidius.

“Jonah, let’s head to your parents house first.” Portenda sniffed the air. “You lead the way,” he mumbled after a moment, and Jonah gave him a sidelong look.

“I have only been to this city a few times before, Jonah. I don’t know my way around,” he offered coldly.

Jonah shrugged his shoulders, bade Boris farewell, and led Portenda through the streets of his hometown, Desanadron. He smiled and waved to dozens of familiar faces he passed by—in the dining patios, in the merchant shops, and outside of the towering apartment buildings and private homes. He took cutbacks and shortcuts through alleys that were cleaner than the public streets of Ja-Wen.

This city seems very secure, Portenda thought to himself. Wonder why?

He had his answer not long after that thought. As Jonah led him along, he took in all of the scents and sights, the sounds of the bustling city foot traffic, he noticed that members of Desanadron’s regular army were posted at every turn. They stood in even numbers of two or four men and women, heavily armed, but smiling and conversing with the common citizens.

A city-state with a strong belief in showing the force of its army, it was apparently a clean and orderly city-state. Portenda found this use of the military both effective, and a little offensive. History had shown no great love for military states, and he tended to agree with history.

Jonah finally came to a halt on the outskirts of the residential district. He stared gloomily at a two-story home, a humble, wooden affair, the outside paint starting to peel and chip away. A plaque above the front door said simply, ‘The Staples’ in bold lettering, and Jonah heaved a deep breath before approaching the door, the Bounty Hunter staying a respectful distance behind him.

Jonah took the three front steps in stride, and knocked heavily on the front door. He looked back at Portenda, who maintained his distance.

The front door opened, and Portenda saw a tall, regal woman standing there, her eyes swollen with tears, her commoner’s clothes ragged and unwashed. Her face and her aura radiated strength and pride, despite the fact that she appeared to have been crying ever since she had discovered that her daughter was missing.

For a long moment, she just stood there, but then she clutched her tall, gangly son, balling like a woman grieving for the death of a family member.

From around the side of the house came an older man, his hair streaked with shocks of gray the same shade as Portenda’s eyes. His frame was squat and powerful, his eyes reflecting the long years of conflict he had seen and lived through.

Jonah’s father, Portenda thought. He watched as the man carried a basket of some sort until he looked up at the sound of his wife’s crying, and dropped the basket to the ground to join the other two members of his family in a tight embrace.

After a few minutes, held together by the bonds of arms, hearts, and blood, the Staples stood apart.

The senior of the family, standing beside his wife, looked past Jonah at Portenda the Quiet. “Sorry, sir, I’m not interested in joining the army again.”

 “No, dad,” Jonah said. “This is my friend, Portenda. He’s going to help me look for Eileen.”

Jacob Staples graced the Bounty Hunter with a smile, stepping down off of the porch and extending a rough, work-worn hand. “A pleasure, sir. Any friend of our boy is a friend of the family, especially if you can help us with our problem.”

Jacob Staples was a dangerous man, once, Portenda mused. Even in his elder years, and being a Human, he had almost caused the Simpa a bit of discomfort with his grip.

“Do you know the situation, Mr. Portenda?”

“Just Portenda shall do.” The Simpa tried to sound friendly, but he came off sounding gruff and uncaring, as usual. “And yes, I have been appraised of the situation. Your daughter, Eileen, has been abducted. I shall assist Jonah in any way I can.”

He followed Jacob, Jonah and Anna Staples into their family home. The front door opened into their kitchen, which was kept pristine when Anna wasn’t making a meal. Pots and pans and utensils of all sorts hung from a series of ceiling hooks that Jacob had installed with deft skill. A long, oak table sat in the center of the room, just to the left of the Gnome-engineered cooking stove and the hanging utensils, with five hand-crafted chairs, each made from a single piece of wood. Portenda admired the quality of the craftsmanship, noticing the slight imperfections here and there. There were little pots on the counters and hanging in the window, with flowers of various sorts growing in them. All in all, the room had a feeling to it that Portenda knew the word for, but had never before actually experienced: the room was cozy. It had a sense of family and home that made the Simpa ill at ease. He rubbed the back of his furry head awkwardly, hoping that they would move on to the den or some other room shortly.

But as he followed the family into the living den, he found that same sensation, in a more overpowering quantity. The den was slightly disheveled, but otherwise neat and well kept. There was spongy green carpeting the hue of forest floor grass. Several comfortable looking chairs, and a couch for the family to sit on, faced the center of the room where a long coffee table rested. A wood burning fireplace was set in the far left corner of the room from where Portenda stood, clearly designed to spread heat and comfort to the entire den. He felt out of place and out of touch with reality; was this how a real family lived? His own family had been, well, slightly broken.

“Portenda, are you all right?”

He snapped his attention to the recliner where she had taken a seat.

Mr. Staples stood in front of a display set of weapons on the right-hand wall, looking over the various instruments of death he had employed in his younger years.

Here at last, Portenda thought with a relaxing sigh, was something he could identify with. A moment later, he noticed that all of the weapons had been purposely dulled and blunted. His heart sank into his stomach; he didn’t belong in a place such as this, surrounded by creature comforts and the homey, friendly atmosphere.

“I’ll be fine,” he said.

Jacob took his left arm and guided him to a thick, velvety chair. He eased Portenda down in the seat, giving him a concerned look.

“Do you need something to eat, something to drink, maybe,” the older Human asked with genuine concern. His bushy gray beard hung about his face like a halo, Portenda thought. “Are you ill?”

“I’m, not certain,” Portenda lied, knowing what the problem was. “I could use a glass of water, if it’s not a problem.”

Jacob Staples smiled and returned a minute later with a pitcher of water and a glass for the Simpa.

Portenda took a long pull, drinking an entire glass as he collected himself.

Jonah was giving him a look that was simultaneously worried and puzzled.

Portenda took a deep breath, centering himself. When he opened his eyes again, he found he was feeling much better. “I’d like to see her room, if I may.”

“Of course.” Anna got to her feet slowly.

Portenda rose and raised a hand to stay her.

“No, you rest. Your heart rate is still fast, and your muscles are worn.”

Both Anna and Jacob’s eyes went wide. “There was water dripping on the floor from the pots and pans in the kitchen. The pilot of the Gnome stove was clicking on and off,” he said, taking in all of the sights, sounds and smells of the entire downstairs. “Your meal isn’t yet bubbling, which means you’ve only just finished preparing it before we arrived. You put it in the stove just before you opened to door to find your son and I standing outside. And you, sir, should take better care of yourself, for her sake.” He moved his eyes, but not his head, toward Jacob.

The elder Staples man’s eyes reflected his shock and wonder at Portenda’s observations. Beneath that surface surprise, the Bounty Hunter saw something else brewing: a wariness born out of years of experience and conflict. Anyone who can know so much from so little time and observation, must be watched and considered carefully.

“Jonah can show me up,” Portenda offered, watching as the Human Alchemist stood up and whispered something in his father’s ear.

“Always,” his father asked, bewildered. He looked at Portenda and smiled knowingly. “You’re a Bounty Hunter, aren’t you? You people are good, I’ll give you that. Astute powers of observation. I’ve never met one, but I’ve heard stories about some of your people. You must be one of the best.”

Jacob relaxed, much to Portenda's silent relief.

“Well, Jonah,” Jacob said, “show the man up. I’m going to go down to the corner and get one of those new Gnome ice boxes the Deltoroes are always telling me about.” He smiled at his son and gave him a quick, bone-crunching hug. “It’s good to have you home again, even for a little while,” he whispered in his son’s ear, though the Bounty Hunter heard him clearly.

Jonah led Portenda up an aging set of steps to the second floor, to the closed door of his sister’s room.

Before he entered, he turned and gave Portenda a hard look. “You really scared them back there, you know. My mother’s never met a man of your size or skill, and my father trembled when he hugged me. I can tell he’s really been on edge since Eileen went missing.”

“I’m sorry Jonah,” Portenda said, a hint of sadness in his voice as he hung his head.

Is he ashamed? Jonah wondered. Why?

“It’s just,” Portenda continued, “I’ve never experienced a feeling like I did down there. Your father was obviously a great warrior in his time, and I suspect that he doesn’t understand the path you’ve chosen.”

“That’s right,” Jonah said, in a ‘so what’ tone.

“But he loves you anyway, doesn’t he?”

Jonah nodded, and thought for a moment he saw where this was going. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear any more from the Bounty Hunter, because he was certain it was going to be a depressing speech.

“I’m not sure I’ve ever known that feeling. I’ve never really known what it means.”

“What what means,” Jonah asked.

Portenda turned his attention on the door to Eileen’s room, sniffing the air closely. “Family,” he said, opening the door and stepping through.

Jonah, befuddled more than he had thought possible, followed him in.

The room was in shambles, his mother and father unable to bring themselves to enter the room.

“Your father stood here for a long time, several hours at least,” Portenda reported. “He feels personally responsible for this.”

Jonah stutter-stepped to his sister’s dresser, where her diary lay, opened and facing down. He turned it up, and decided to take the opportunity to read the latest entries for any trace of a hint as to what exactly had happened.

In her letters to Jonah, Eileen had confessed that she had, unbeknownst to their parents, begun studying Q magic—the art of status-effecting spells and minor destructive and defensive magic. She had been studying ever since Jonah’s last year living with them, which would make this her fourth year of study. She had told him that she had been finding it difficult to cast the few spells she had memorized on or through steel or iron, and had resolved to inquire about the properties of steel with Jonah himself or one of the other Alchemists in town. Perhaps, she had written, the old half-Orc Q Mage down the street, Balbous Barabus could help her.

But her diary made no mention of her study of sorcery. Mother most likely read her diary regularly, Jonah thought, so of course she would leave that sort of thing out. It read more like a bad romance novel, a running record of her failed romances and few boyfriends, all of whom she had tried to keep secret from their folks. But the very last two entries, he saw, described a stranger who had blown into town, a man wearing a black, leather cloak, and a strange ivory mask. After that, there were no entries. “Portenda, I think I’ve found a clue.” He handed the diary to the Bounty Hunter, who had been standing there in the center of the room like a statue.

Portenda took the diary gently, respectful of the fact that it was someone else’s property. He browsed the final pages of the diary, raising his eyebrows a couple of times and then giving Jonah a flat stare. “You only had to read the last entry, Jonah. Why did you read the rest?”

Jonah blushed and turned aside, crossing his arms and harrumphing. “I’m her older brother. I think I have a right to know what’s been going on in my sister’s life.”

Portenda shook his head and returned to his observations. The scent of blood still clung to the air, old and dried. But there was only one source, female, similar to the smell of Jonah’s blood, a scent he now knew quite well. But there was also the trace scent of a chemical of some sort. It was familiar, a sedative he had sometimes used to get himself to sleep.

* * * *

Jonah stared from his sister’s open window down onto the streets of Desanadron. Impossible, he thought, that someone could have taken his sister out this window without raising suspicion. Someone out there knew what had happened and hadn’t done a thing to stop it. Perhaps, he thought, they even helped the villain escape.

“I smell something here,” Portenda said. “A chemical of some sort."

“Can you describe the smell?”

“I know it was a sedative.” Portenda closed his eyes and tried to concentrate. Something else in the room, something he felt more than smelled or saw, made him uneasy and uncomfortable, slightly skewing his senses.

Jonah thought through his mental catalogue of every sedative that could be delivered in a drink or on the end of a weapon.

“It smells slightly like pine needles,” Portenda said, and Jonah’s eyes snapped open.

“Renval Ink,” he said. “It’s used as a sleep aid for lycanthropes! My gods, if the bastard used that on her, she could easily have been knocked out for days.”

The Bounty Hunter wobbled and broke out in a cold sweat.

Oh shit, Jonah thought. Eileen’s jewelry box is full of silver trinkets.

Jonah moved over to her vanity desk, grabbed the bronze jewelry box, and carried it over to her closet. He knew she kept a copper safe box in there, on the floor at the back, where she stashed away her most prized possessions. Copper, Jonah had discovered in his studies of metals and their properties, could act as a buffer for the effects of silver on a lycanthrope.

“What did you do,” Portenda asked, more interested than Jonah would have liked. He felt as though the Simpa was boring through his soul with those great, gray eyes.

“Eileen wears a lot of silver jewelry when she goes out on dates and the like. I just put her jewelry box in her copper safe. Silver’s effects on a lycanthrope are negated when it is placed in a copper container. It’s like a natural buffer.”

Portenda nodded, and his face went back to its normal look of detached curiosity. “A lesson I shall not soon forget.” He stalked over to the window, and found the intruder had left not even a trace scent of himself. “Jonah, come here,” he said.

The Alchemist took one final look around the room before he approached. “What is that?”

“It’s a piece of his cloak,” Portenda said.

Jonah finally felt a sliver of hope pierce the darkness of his heart.

* * * *

“You’re certain you can’t stay the night,” Anna Staples asked once more as Portenda the Quiet and Jonah Staples stood on her front porch.

“We shall return, but not until the morning, Mrs. Staples,” Portenda said. “This cloak was very special, unique even. I have a very reliable source of information in the forest just north of this city. We shall require food and drink when we return, and plenty of it. It shall be a very taxing evening.”

As midnight approached, Jacob walked out onto the porch, and handed Jonah a gleaming, finely edged short sword. “I know you’re not much good at fighting, son, but take it anyway. You may need it out in that forest.”

Jonah noted the strange, glowing runes carved into the blade.

“It’s enchanted, son—Paladin magic. High Commander Hayes of the Order of Oun gave it to me after the war. That, and a healthy amount of gold,” he amended with a smile.

Jonah took the weapon and sheath, securing the sword to his hip.

“Oh, and I packed you a meal, just in case.” Anna handed Jonah a small bag of wrapped foodstuffs.

“Mother, please,” Jonah protested as his mother shoved the bag into his hands. “I’m not twelve anymore, okay?”

Portenda gave Jonah a light slap to the back of the head, surprising both Jonah and his parents.

With a grumble and a smile, Jonah put the sack lunch in his rucksack, keeping it separate from his chemicals. “Thank you mom,” he muttered

Anna gave him a brief embrace and a kiss on the cheek.

“You’ll keep him safe, right?” she asked Portenda, a look of fear and concern for her son’s welfare impressed in her eyes and voice. She wanted her boy to stay home, he mused. Jacob, on the other hand, appeared to want the boy to go out into the world and gain valuable experience. A Soldier through and through, he thought with an inward smile.

“Of course I will, ma’am.”

“Good.” Jacob Staples put his arm around his wife’s waning waistline. “Because if you don’t, you and I shall have to tangle.”

Portenda realized that the elder Soldier meant every word of his bold statement. Jacob would try in earnest to kill him if Jonah came to harm. This family has already been through enough, he thought vehemently. I shall not fail this mission.

“Jonah, come.” He led the Human north through the city streets. At night, the city of Desanadron was much like Ja-Wen, lights still glowing in various pubs and stores.

Jonah rubbed the sore spot on the back of his head until they were out of earshot of his parents’ house, and then addressed the Bounty Hunter. “Why did you slap me back there? That really smarted.”

Portenda wheeled so fast that Jonah saw nothing but a blur of golden fur until he was pressed nose-to-snout with the big man. There was no trace of malice in his eyes, only a sort of sadness, its source unknown to the Alchemist.

“You were being insolent to your mother. She brought you into this world, Jonah. The least you can do for her is suffer her affections, however embarrassing they may be. Now, let’s continue.”

Jonah followed in silence for a while, nodding to one of the northern gate guards, a man he had grown up with.

The Minotaur smiled and nodded amiably back at Jonah. “Jonah Staples, it is good to see you in prosperous health.” The Minotaur Sergeant’s steel armor caught the light of the torch in his left hand.

Jonah looked at the stripes on his tunic sleeve and whistled. “Ah, a Sergeant now, Manny. You’ve done well for yourself. Tell me, how’s the baby?”

Portenda shuffled aside, observing this interaction.

“Well, he’s walking around, destroying everything he touches,” Manny replied, and the Private next to him chuckled softly. Manny introduced the Elven man. “This is Private Seth Estoc. Private, this is an old friend of mine, Jonah Staples. I told you I wasn’t a racist,” Manny said to the nervous Elven man.

“A pleasure to meet you, citizen.” The Elf extended an armored hand.

Jonah shook it, and the Private immediately snapped back to an attentive posture.

“Breaking him in, eh?” Jonah gave the lumbering Minotaur a wry smile.

“Just busting his balls. It’s his first night on duty.” Manny smiled broadly at the Human. “Where are you and your quiet friend heading?”

“The Taiwok Forest,” Portenda replied.

Both the Minotaur and the Elf gasped in fright. Jonah had never heard anything about the Taiwok, except that he should stay away from it.

“You’re joking, right?” The muscular Minotaur looked at Portenda with his face but at Jonah with his eyes.

Jonah shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.

“Jonah, I can’t allow you to go there. Your mother and father are already worried sick about Eileen.” He put a big hand on Jonah’s shoulder.

The Alchemist gripped his wrist hard, pressing himself forward. “What do you know about Eileen?”

The Minotaur rubbed the back of his head as he pulled his hand away. “Just what your dad told us. Some drifter came through, stayed with them, and then took off with Eileen. We don’t have much to go on, but we are investigating.”

Jonah nodded. He wasn’t entirely satisfied with the Minotaur’s response, but for now, it would have to do.

“Look, Manny, thanks for the information. But now we do have to go, both of us, to the Taiwok,” he said, moving away.

“Hey, if you’re going, Jonah,” the Minotaur said, a concerned expression plastered to his face. “Just, just be careful, huh?”

Jonah nodded. He followed behind Portenda, who had already moved away, out of the gates of Desanadron, and into the plains beyond.

* * * *

“Mak Don,” Eileen shouted, casting another Raybolt spell at the steel floor. All of her energy only managed to scorch the surface a little.

She slumped to the floor, exasperated and drained from the spells. Two meals had passed since the masked freak had visited. At the last meal, the man had slipped a note through the door with the food, with a single name on it—Genma.

So that’s his name, she had thought, using it as a focal thought for her spells. But the more she tried, the more she simply wore herself out. Now she desperately needed food and rest.

Another meal slid through the slot as she thought about her needs, and another note accompanied it. As she wolfed hungrily at the food, leaving the tray on the floor and eating like an animal, she checked the note. It read as follows:

‘Dear child, you know that all that spell casting will drain you. I have thus far tolerated it simply because I know that you can have no success. I shall allow you to work yourself into a tizzy tonight, but when the sun rises, your foolishness had better stop. I have tried to be reasonable and patient with your ignorant attempts to free yourself, but tomorrow, you shall stop. I shall be visiting you again tomorrow around lunchtime, and expect you to be cooperative. I have some important information that I must gather from you, and you will comply. If you do not, I shall be forced to make things very uncomfortable for you.’ —Genma.

Great, she thought, frustrated beyond belief. I’m locked in some room, held captive by a total nutjob who wants to remove my soul and turn my body into a copy of his dead wife. Lords only know what kind of stuff that creep wants to do with me tomorrow. But being angry wasn’t getting her free. To stand a chance, she would have to take the opportunity he would be presenting her at lunch the next day.

Using her limited knowledge of locking spells, an art that was tricky and very tiring, she locked a number of minor offensive spells on her body and clothes. She also locked a strength-draining spell on the door itself, setting the trigger condition to be when Genma opened it. After her preparations, she felt like slipping into a coma, but settled instead for lying under the comforter on her cot, and falling fast asleep. I’m not going to let him touch me without leaving a few bruises, she thought as she slipped into slumber.

* * * *

Midnight. The moon hung high overhead, the perfect mirror of its sister the sun at noon.

Jonah followed Portenda the Quiet through the Taiwok Forest, avoiding branches and piles of leaves when he could. Portenda stepped easily over and around these little problems, making no sound as he passed through the thick maple and pine trees of the forest.

Jonah hurried to keep up, now and again tripping and falling into foliage and underbrush with a “Hoomph!” After a while, he wondered where they were headed. He glanced at his timepiece: half past midnight.

Portenda stopped just outside of a small clearing in which stood an odd little cottage erected entirely of blackened wood.

Jonah had never seen wood of that hue before—it wasn’t painted black, the wood was simply dark as night. He stood just behind and to the left of Portenda, who squinted his eyes and sniffed the air.

“One of them is nearby,” the Bounty Hunter said. “I can feel the wind breaking over his body.” He forced Jonah to duck as he launched a roundhouse kick to the face of a pale, humanoid creature that had charged at them through the air.

The man landed in a heap of purple, velvet evening attire, the sort that diplomats wear to charity balls.

Jonah stared in fear and shock as the man stood, brushed off his clothes, and smiled at them, revealing four fangs even longer than Portenda’s.

A Vampire, Jonah thought, horror seizing his entire body. Oh gods, we’re screwed. He scrambled to his feet, drawing the short sword his father had given him.

The Vampire threw his head back and laughed at him and Portenda put his hand back toward Jonah, signaling him to put the weapon away.

“My goodness, Portenda,” the Vampire said. “He’s a feisty one, isn’t he?”

Jonah stared in disbelief at the Vampire and the Simpa. “You, you know this thing?”

Portenda gently took the short sword from Jonah and planted it, tip first, in the soil.

“Oh, listen to him,” the Vampire said in a thick, northwestern region accent. “He ist precious, istn’t he? Vell, if my friend here von’t introduce me, I shall introduce myself, no?” The Vampire rolled his hand forward and bowed, a graceful motion in the moonlight. “My name ist Richard Tiverski. I am the eldest of the Tiverski brothers.  Please, follow me,” the Vampire said, walking past Portenda and Jonah.

The Alchemist gripped Portenda by the leather armor, pulling himself up his front.

“What the devil is going on here, Portenda? How do you know this, this,” he stammered, trying to think of an appropriate term.

“Man, Jonah. He and his brothers are men, even though they are Vampires. Trust me on this one.” Portenda grabbed Johan by the back of the shirt and set him on the forest floor. “These are not bad men.”

“Not bad men?” Jonah now realized why Manny had warned him against coming here. “They’re Vampires for the gods’ sakes! You know, black magic, sucking people’s blood, turning them into slaves, that sort of thing? You do know that, don’t you?”

Portenda simply followed Richard Tiverski.

“This is a bad idea,” Jonah muttered to himself as he sprinted to catch up to the long, loping strides of the Bounty Hunter.

The three men entered the cottage, and stood in a den not unlike the one at Jonah’s parents’ house. Here, though, the wood burned without smoke, and let only a moderate amount of heat into the room.

On the couch, facing the fire, sat two more Vampires.  One was clad all in black from head to foot, his waist-long hair draped over the back of the couch. He was large and muscular like Portenda, and broad in the shoulders as far as Jonah could see from his angle. His ears were slightly pointed, a sign that he had once been an Elf. As Jonah angled around the couch for a better view, he saw that the Vampire had a huge scimitar resting against the couch next to him. His arms were crossed as he glared at the fire, his upper fangs jutting just slightly over his lower lip, and his eyes suddenly snapped over to Jonah, who let out a girlish shriek as he stumbled backward, tripping over a footstool and crashing to the floor.

“Please, do not vorry yourself,” Richard Tiverski said as he flopped into a chair opposite Jonah. “Trent has that effect on people. These are my brothers, Trent Tiverski, the brawn of our trio.” Richard waved his hand at the morbid looking warrior. “And Simon Tiverski, the most talented magic vielder among us.” He indicated the third Vampire, a short, gaunt figure who wore a forest green robe with blue runes stitched into the fabric. Simon’s head was completely bald, and his eyes were set deep in his face, the red irises barely visible amid the darkness of his face. All were pale, tallow-skinned creatures, but none of them, now that Jonah looked at the three of them, seemed inherently vicious. Trent had an aura of violent potential about him, sure, but Jonah expected that from any Vampire. This was, after all, his first and only actual encounter with the species.

Portenda stood behind the couch, rummaged through his rucksack, and producing the piece of leather cloak.

Aside from the color, it looked exactly like the purple cloak that hung on the wall behind Richard, who had gotten up and returned now to his seat, a glass with suspicious red liquid in it. “Oh, don’t vorry about dis,” Richard said with a sheepish grin at Jonah.

“Pig’s blood,” Portenda uttered to Jonah, who looked on with shock as Richard Tiverski tipped the wineglass back, draining every last drop of its contents.

“I don’t understand,” he said, moving in front of the fire. “You were clearly born a Vampire,” he said to Richard. “But he was once an Elf,” he said, pointing to Trent, who made a face at him. “And he doesn’t look related to you at all.” He pointed in turn at Simon, who gave him a slight smile before returning to his thoughts.

Richard laughed heartily as Portenda handed him the piece of leather cloak.

“Ve are brothers, little Human, make no mistake about that. Ve are not related by blood, that much is true, but ve haf taken an oath, the three of us. Ve have vowed never to drink from the throats of mortal men and vomen. Ve flatly refuse to be the monsters that go bump in the night, young man.” He got up and rinsing his glass out by a water pump in what appeared to be the kitchen, attached to the living den. “May I offer you a drink off something? Ve keep ales and tonics in the icebox, in case ve get company, vich, by the vay, doesn’t happen often.”

“Any idea who made that cloak,” Portenda asked suddenly, interrupting Jonah and Richard’s conversation.

Richard did the talking for the group, Jonah surmised. And why not? The man seemed to have a natural charm. And he was, aside from the accent, very well spoken. A fitting representative for the trio.

“I’m not entirely certain just yet, but you vere right to bring it to me. It definitely hast the same qvalities of our kind’s cloaks.” Richard returned with a fizzing, bubbling beverage, which he handed to Jonah.

“What is it?” Jonah took a whiff of the drink. No traces of poison, he mused, unable to stop himself from checking anyway.

“The Dvarves make this stuff. They claim it’s like drinkink cold, sugary coffee. They call it, soda, I think the vord is.” Richard raised an eyebrow at Jonah. “Vat is that horrible smell coming from your bag?”

Oh, Hells, Jonah thought, thinking about his lunch and tapping the snap on his rucksack. “Ah, it’s gone now,” Richard said, moving away in any event.

“Sorry, but I’m an Alchemist,” Jonah explained. “I keep shaved garlic and garlic powder for combining potions and the like.”

Richard, Trent and Simon all cringed simultaneously.

Portenda looked at Richard and cleared his throat gruffly.

“Ah, yes, of course. It is as you suspect, my fine, furry friend. But this cloak ist not like mine, or those off other, more traditional Vampires.” He took down his purple cloak and put it on, clipping the neck clasps together. “Observe, if you will,” he said more to Jonah than to the Simpa.

Richard Tiverski furled the cloak in front of him, and before Jonah’s eyes, the purple, velvety material hardened into a sizable shield.

Portenda hefted the auto crossbow from his hip and turned the crank, firing round after round of bolts into the fabric.

They all stopped, repelled by the cloak as Richard giggled behind his shield.

Portenda, having helped demonstrate the cloak’s powers to Jonah, put his weapon away and retrieved the fallen bolts. “Now, Jonah, vatch closely.” With another furl of the material, he lashed out at Portenda with a sharpened edge of the cloak, a blow that Portenda easily knocked aside with his extracted claws.

Richard then spun around in a circle, and completely disappeared, the cloak turning to liquid and seeping through the cracks in the floor.

He reappeared a moment later, his cloak appearing to be part of the dark shadows thrown behind the couch by the fire’s light. He spun back into being, and flourished his arms and fangs as he bowed deeply once again. “You see, Jonah, the cloak ist an ancient, sacred item to our kind. I vas vonce a monster, just like the majority off our kind.” He took off the cloak and hung it on the wall with a heavy sigh. “I vas foolish, and craved the power that my father vonce had. I vas born a Vampire, I knew no other vay. But many years passed.” He looked back at the cloak. “And as I surpassed my father, I began to think about the thousands off mortals I had drunk from, taking their lives or turning them into more of us. I svore then, that I vould no longer drink from the throats of mortals. I vould take only vat they villing give me, in a separate container. Some of mortal kind find our existence fascinating, and seek us out. They ask to join our ranks, the fools that they are. I simply ask them to make a cut on their arm or leg, pour in a bowl, and then take their leave from me.” Richard Tiverski turned again to Portenda. “This cloak, by the vay, vas not made in the vays of old. Some magic or science produced this.” He tossed the leather piece back to Portenda with mild disgust.

“Thank you, Richard,” Portenda said.

Trent got up and excused himself quietly from the room.

“Some magic, or science you say?” The Bounty Hunter asked. “What makes you so sure?”

“Vell.” Richard put his chin in his palm, thinking carefully. “First of all, the old cloaks are made from the flesh of Doppelgangers, to allow for the morphing capabilities. They’re alvays easy to find for a Vampire,” he explained to Jonah. “They seem to flock to our kind. Ve have the ability to control them, so I suspect it’s a natural instinct. Secondly, there is no trace off verevolf blood on it. They are our kind’s most hated enemies, Jonah,” he said, again addressing the Alchemist instead of the Bounty Hunter.

Why the fascination with me? Jonah wondered. Portenda’s the one who asked.

“Ve have no problems vith them, but they know us, and vat ve are about.” He lowered his chin to his chest. “Lastly, I can sense that the art used to make this cloak hast been around for thousands of years, long before the Age of Mecha. The cloak itself isn’t that old, of course, but the art used to make it is. It seems to have the same abilities as my cloak, but it is of a vastly different nature.”

Portenda nodded, and walked into the kitchen, opening a large cupboard and pulling down an empty jar.

What happened next made Jonah so ill that he had to rush to the Tiverski’s front door and throw it open to vomit outside. Portenda extracted the claws of his left paw, and carefully, deliberately carved his right forearm open, pouring his own blood into the jar.

The thick, musty odor of Jonah’s stomach contents wafted into his nostrils as they splashed to the mossy forest floor outside, and he collapsed to his knees, mere inches away from his own waste. He could hear the trickle of Portenda’s blood in the background, filling the jar as he bled himself into it.

“Ah, very much obliged,” he heard Richard saying behind him. “Jonah, are you all right?”

When Jonah returned to the den, he saw that Portenda had crashed, bleeding and unconscious, to the floor. Simon was casting a spell on the wound, and it closed an instant later, glimmering with soft emerald light.

The smell of blood filled Jonah’s lungs, and he felt like he was breathing in tar.

“My sincerest apologies,” Richard said, patting Jonah on the shoulder. “This is how he repays us for our assistance. He’s a very generous man.”

Jonah hauled back his fist and punched the Vampire squarely in the face, sending him sprawling against the door to Trent’s room. Simon yelped in surprise and shock, leaping back over the couch as the huge, warrior Vampire thrust his door open and looked down at the eldest Tiverski brother.

Murder filled his eyes as he glared menacingly at Jonah, whose hand felt like it was on fire after punching Richard. The warrior Vampire cracked his knuckles and stepped forward, his midnight black cloak fluttering in preparation for slaughter.

Richard reached up and grabbed Trent by the wrist, shaking his head.

The Vampire brute looked up at Jonah again, and down at Portenda.

“Count your blessings.” Trent’s deep, booming voice caused the air to quiver around Jonah, shaking him to his bones.

Richard had regained his feet at this point, and smiled crookedly at the Alchemist.

“I, I don’t know what to say,” Jonah stammered, still concerned for the Bounty Hunter’s health. “I just, I lost my temper, Mr. Tiverski. Maybe I should leave.”

“I don’t think so. You may have been fine coming in to our forest, but finding your vay out vithout Portenda, vell, zat might be impossible.” Richard folded his arms in a haughty manner.

“What do you mean?”

“Vell,” Richard began as a groan issued from Portenda’s mouth.

The Simpa was regaining consciousness thanks to Simon’s magic.

“Mostly, it’s the wraiths that I vould be concerned vith. They leave our mutual furry friend here alone, because on previous visits to us, he hast slain several of them.” Richard’s tone hinted at the great respect he held for such an accomplishment. Wraiths stood among the most dangerous abominations in all of Tamalaria. Undead creatures, wraiths took a semi-solid state when they chose in order to rend their victims to shreds with their spectral claws and fangs, but they relied on fear and black magic to break their victims’ defenses down. But a wraith, Jonah also knew, could not harm a mortal if he or she showed no fear of them. Portenda, it often seemed, wasn’t afraid of anything.

A moment later the Bounty Hunter was on his knees, his palms pressed flat to his thighs as he shook his head.

Gods, Portenda thought, that was draining. Need to cut back on how much I give them. He kept his chin tucked against his chest, his eyes closed as he tried to meditate. He focused on the drone of voices a few feet in front of him, not so much the words, but to take a rhythm from them.

A small mental trigger went click, and his mind snapped into place. He would be fine, now, so long as food waited for him when he returned to the Staples residence. Like a possum getting up from the spot in the merchant road where it had laid all day, playing dead, Portenda got to his feet, making certain as he slowly rose that he wouldn’t be brought back down.

He wobbled for a moment, and then found that he had solid ground under his feet, instead of under his face.

“Good, you’re awake.” Jonah smiled. “Can we get out of here and head back to my parents’ house?”

Portenda nodded and grumbled something unintelligible under his breath, walking unsteadily over to the Alchemist. Jonah let Portenda lean a little on him, though he didn’t quite feel fully capable of supporting his weight.

Ah, he thought, I can fix that. “Richard, I’d like to use a Focus Site. May I?”

The Vampire leader gave him a queer look, and Jonah realized that he would have to explain.

“In Alchemy, the semi-magical art known as Focus is the pinnacle of study. Only the most devoted Alchemists master it. I’m no master,” he said, putting his hand out to stop Richard from asking any questions about his knowledge of Alchemy. “But I know many of the Sites by heart, and I have reference texts. I just need to draw a Site with chalk on your floor.”

“By all means, go ahead.” Richard bowed deeply and slipped back. “I am most interested in this, Focus.” He rolled the word out with a hint of mystery.

Jonah pulled out his stick of chalk, which was getting shorter every time he turned around, and drew a simple Focus Site diagram on the floor. The Alchemist knelt on the Site, thrusting his palms into the floor.

The now familiar rush of force, accompanied by the scent of wet wool, blew over his body and through the chamber. Jonah felt fire race through his muscles, an inferno of power raging in his blood as his heart hammered faster in his chest.

The pain was much less than when he had used the extension Site to grow vines from his wrists. Pure, physical strength powered him, and he mentally sighed, relieved that his use of the Strength Site had gone off without a hitch.

Jonah lifted Portenda, who looked at him with an eyebrow raised.

Jonah grinned impishly, and helped him to the door. “Thank you for your help, Richard,” the Bounty Hunter said as the senior Tiverski brother handed him back the piece of leather cloak.

“Any time, my friend. Ve are alvays here for you,” Richard opened the door for the two men, who eased out into the night.

After about ten minutes of slow marching, Portenda spoke quietly to Jonah.

“Our enemy is very resourceful, it would seem,” he said.

“Maybe so, but I think we can get the job done,” Jonah said. “So what do we do when we get back?”

“Simple,” Portenda said. “We assemble a list of suspects and get any information that the guards have. Information is the best weapon, Jonah, when tracking a true nemesis.”