The next morning, Jingles makes pancakes. Starving, I quickly flit through my spells, then shrug on my enchanted robe and a pair of undershorts. I grab my mandolin, and Whiskey threads my legs, begging for a treat, as I step from the room. The team's gathered cross-legged around the low table, debriefing.

  “People have a lot to say about last night,” Karla says. She’s leafing through a stack of tabloids, glasses on. “They can’t decide if it’s the best or worst Gala in the last five years. This one’s speculating how much of the budget went to paying you.”

  I stuff down pancakes smothered in nut butter and honey. “It’s cute they think that sort of work’s lucrative.”

  “It’s a serious misstep to have the guest of honor provide entertainment,” Lucy says. “Byra would be embarrassed.”

  “They still ate it right up,” Deach says. He’s in his half-orc form, wearing his usual shirt, waistcoat, and tight pants. He's picking banana chunks from his pancakes.

  “Could we leak that they paid me a fistful of ass wind?” I ask.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Now what?” Jingles asks, pecking crumbs from their plate. Their bells quietly tinkle.

  I sigh, nudging my mandolin aside as Deach pours coffee. I splash some thick, fatty milk in it. I glance at the bar, but all the bottles are put away. “Well, we’re one bloodsucker down. But we’ve got two more that we know about, and one vampire lord we didn’t know about. And after last night, we should be somewhere the Guild doesn’t have eyes on. Vampires can’t enter without an invitation.”

  “I reckon they can do so here. They own this building,” Oka says. He’s in shirtsleeves, his hat on the table next to him. “And most of the city, for that matter.”

  “Then let’s move that higher on the list. As for Carolus… I’m not sure of anything. Vampire lords are a whole other thing.”

  Karla speaks up. “I missed him in my research because he’s been seen outside recently. The sunlight doesn’t seem to bother him.”

  He didn’t seem terribly vampiric at first, but vampire lords are much better at hiding. They can’t be powerful enough to win against the sun, can they? I pause. “He had a ring on him – it was definitely magical. That might be why.”

  “We need to get rid of it,” Jingles says.

  I also can’t shake Carolus bringing up me being the Champion of Iros. What was a vampire lord doing poking around the clergy of the Dawn Lord, aside from charming the High Priest?

  “What else do you know of him?” I ask Karla. “What’s his story? Where’s he from?”

  She flips through pages. “He says that he’s a hundred-percent Horonese, but his family traces their ancestry back to Udon-Tal before it was the Bellenstein Dynasty. They defected once it began to form.”

  I sip coffee. “Your family's from there, right? Carolus is an old name.”

  “He says he’s named after the ancestor who left. He’s something like the fifth or sixth member of his family to have it. That's not so uncommon there.”

  That’s whiffing of a centaur's twice-processed shit. But there’s too much going on to begin piecing this all together.

  “Are you okay, boss?” Genk asks. “You seemed shaken up last night.”

  “I’m alright,” I say with a leisurely twitch of my lips. “He just caught me off-guard.”

  Deach is watching me carefully. And the rest of them, for that matter. My guts clench.

  “I’m fine,” I say more forcefully. My dreams were horrific last night. “I’ve slept on it, and I’m ready for a new day.”

  A voice comes outside the door. “I love cock.”

  It’s a familiar voice — brassy and insufferable — spewing bleach on the password. Then a brusque knock echoes. I lock eyes with Deach.

  I stand, approaching the door. Deach slips behind it. Sven hovers, belting on his shortsword. I open it.

  Richard stands in the doorway. He’s wearing silvery lamellar armor, honeyed hair glistening and freshly curated with product. His gloved hand is resting on his longsword. He removes it shortly.

  “Warchief.”

  I stop. Something’s different about him. I peer closer. The charm’s gone.

  “Richard Cheese. What’s the occasion for your visit this fine morning?”

  He pauses for a long moment. Several things cross his face while I lean against the door. “Might I come in? I believe we have much to discuss.”

  “Sure, but it's bring-your-own pancakes, so it looks like you're shit out of luck.”

  His perfect brows pull together. He definitely waxes them. He peers past me into the room. I step away and let him in. The door closes. I glance back as I head to the table. Deach is following, perfectly silent. Richard doesn’t notice.

  He takes in the table full of people. His hands hang awkwardly at his sides. “Good morning. I… I don’t know how to begin. My mother is dead, and I’m certain you had something to do with it. Please don’t mistake this for casting blame – she had me under some kind of… thrall. It lifted last night. I wanted to say…” He looks like he caught bird shit with an open mouth. “I’m sorry for my behavior.” He glances around. “Especially to Deach, wherever she is – he. They. Wherever Deach is.”

  Deach cocks a brow but says nothing.

  I sip coffee, sitting cross-legged at the head of the table. Somehow, I believe Richard. Why else would he be here? “So you knew your mother was a bloodsucker.”

  “To some degree,” Richard says. “I believe she magically tampered with my memory. Some of it is still hazy. I’ll give you this information in good faith – Minister Miyake and Minister Dupuy are also vampires. And Chairman Baumbach is their vampire lord.”

  “How do you know that? Masato said justicars can’t sense them.”

  “They spoke openly. As for being unable to sense them, I can only assume Chairman Baumbach can conceal their true nature.”

  That’s a terrifying amount of power. “But there’s no others?”

  “Not to my knowledge, although she planned to turn me… very soon.”

  “Why?”

  He pauses. “This is where it becomes fuzzy. They planned to turn many people, but I can’t say for what purpose. Minister Dupuy is overseeing something, but I wasn’t given access to more information. It’s regarding a book he recovered some years ago.”

  Deach’s eyes narrow.

  I nod. “And why’re you telling us this?”

  Richard squares himself. “I believe we can be allies. My mother took advantage of me for political gain, and the rest of the Ministry enabled it.”

  I point at him. “You know we’re taking down the whole Guild, not just the Ministry, right?”

  “The Ministry is the Guild. What they allow as policy is reflected everywhere. I respect and encourage your ideals. But I’ve noted your disorganization and believe you could benefit from a robust leader. Hence why I’ve come.”

  Lucy sputters into her tea.

  “We follow him,” Deach says, pointing at me.

  Richard whirls, hand on his longsword. “Gods above. How long were you standing there?”

  “Long enough look up your gaping asshole,” I say. “We’ll not turn down help. But if you need more reason to take down the Guild, I can tell you what happened to Selena.”

  Richard narrows his eyes. His hand’s still on his longsword. Sven looms until he releases it. “How dare you say her name.”

  “My apologies. I’ll keep it to myself, then.”

  Richard sputters. “Fine. What happened?”

  I sip more coffee, chewing on pancakes. He hangs on my movements, waiting. “I scried on her. Lucy thinks she’s been chained to her ancestral tree down in the Heartwood. I’d bet your mother had something to do with it.”

  Richard sways, clapping a hand over his mouth. “Gods, she’s alive –”

  I stand, approaching. I put a hand on his armored shoulder. “Look. You’ve been as welcome as a canker sore at a pussy-eating contest. But if you help us out, we can help you out. Wouldn’t you like seeing her again?”

  He starts crying.

  He butts his head against my shoulder, like he’s looking for a hug. I share a look with Deach, who’s watching, wide-eyed. The room is dead quiet.

  “Yes,” Richard sobs. “I loved her so much. It crushed me when she was – when she went away. Mother told me she was dead. I’d give anything –” He stops, taking a deep breath. Just as quickly, he sucks the tears back in. He straightens, sticking out his cleft chin. “Please ignore that.”

  I raise a brow, clapping him on the shoulder again. “Sure. What else can you tell us about –”

  Jingles stands but says nothing. They stare out the glass window.

  Richards glances over, doing a double-take. “Why is my housekeeper –”

  “The ticking is getting faster,” Jingles whispers.

  We all freeze.

  “What does that mean?” Richard demands. He pauses, whirling toward the door.

  Then we hear people outside. There’s no password. The handle moves.

  “Down!” Sven barks.

  Genk barrels over the table, tackling me to the floor. I’m enveloped in a wall of hot, coarse, black hair. Sven throws himself over us.

  Then the penthouse explodes.

  An ear-splitting, concussive blast rocks the building. The world shudders. I feel it in my bones. We’re thrown across the floor. Wind sweeps through. I can’t hear anything, just screeching. I open my eyes. There’s blood on the wood floor. Underneath a broken couch, a pair of reflective gold eyes watches me, wide with fear. I free myself from Genk and stagger to my feet.

  A gaping hole is carved into the architecture. The door has vanished. Part of the ceiling is gone. The walls are blasted through. Glass and pancake pieces are scattered on the floor. Furniture is blasted apart. The glass panes making up the outside wall are shattered. Wind howls in. Paper and plaster debris float in the air. Whiskey’s enchanted cat tree is knocked over, but looks pristine. Pieces of a rat are splatted on a busted paper divider. I’m covered in blood and construction materials.

  And scrabbling into the penthouse are dozens of red-eyed vampire spawn.

  Some are horribly wounded, pieces missing. They charge anyway, scrabbling on the walls and what's left of the ceiling. My stomach drops. I don’t have a weapon. I whirl. Where in the sweet hells is my mandolin? Like surfacing from a pool of sludge, my hearing comes back. The spawn shriek like banshees, skittering and pouncing. Everyone scrabbles to fight. Genk looms before me. In his hand is my instrument.

  He brains an incoming vampire spawn with it. It makes a discordant crack. He sends another one across the room. It splats into a wall.

  “No!” I screech. “You oversized ungulate! Give me –” I wrest my mandolin from his grasp, slinging it on. “Sweet fucking hells, that’s not a godsdamned weapon.”

  He only grunts and picks up a table. He shatters it on another spawn.

  They keep pouring in. They’re not soulless, shambling undead. They’re people. Their eyes glow bright red, and they bare long fangs, lunging at us. Someone’s sending them after us in droves. And they don’t have a choice.

  Richard stands before the tide, his longsword drawn. His hair and armor are sprinkled with plaster dust. Blood dribbles from his forehead. Spawn fly at him. He cuts one in half like an onion. Amid the encroaching chaos, I realize I expected him to be terrible at his job, nepo child that he is. I was wrong.

  I throw a fist at a half-elf spawn. It stumbles back. There’s a loud crack and a whizz. Its brains spatter. It collapses. Oka’s standing near the kitchen, gun in hand. He tips his hat at me, which somehow survived. He aims, his tail swishing. He nails another one. He splits his gun. Smoke pours out. A hand pops up behind the kitchen counter, handing him two shots.

  Genk grabs a halfling, chucking it out the broken window. It steams and fries as it hits sunlight. It flails and falls, streaking a window across the road.

  “Chouncey!”

  Suddenly, I’m on the floor. Snapping teeth come at me. I push it away. We lock together. A dragonkin scrabbles for my neck. I wedge my forearm in its maw. It meets a wall from my enchanted robe. We’re feet from the edge of the penthouse. Open air brushes me. The spawn lunges. I chuck magic at it. Bright pink flashes. It hisses and wrenches back. Something whispers by. There's a crunch. Bloody sludge pours over me. It thrashes, then slumps over. Our silver-plated dance pole is speared through its head, blasted into a sharpened point.

  It’s Lucy. Her earthy skin is hard and texturized, like bark. She’s wearing a cream negligee and a towel wrapped around her hair.

  “That’s one way of working that pole. I’d watch you all night,” I say. She smiles.

  She hauls me to my feet, moving me away from the edge of the penthouse. A crackling sound rustles the air. Roots and vines sprout from her legs, anchoring her in place. More spawn come at her. She points an arm downward. Bark sprouts outward in tendrils, spiraling downward and fusing together over her hand. Her arm becomes a sharpened wooden spear. She gores a spawn.

  I duck as another one flies over me. Genk chucks one through a paper divider, tossing his black head and goring another on his horns. One scrabbles across the wall, leaping at me.

  A dagger warbles over my shoulder.

  I whirl. Deach advances, tight pants and waistcoat untouched by the blast. The rest of him is bloody and smeared with debris. He pulls his dagger from his holstered sheath, whipping it at another spawn. It lands through its neck. The dagger vanishes. He pulls it from his sheath again, whipping it. It reappears. He sidesteps a spawn, reaching behind the destroyed bar and tossing another dagger. Another is between a couple tattered couch cushions, underneath a rug. Somehow, I’m aroused.

  One dagger punctures a spawn’s chest. It turns to Deach, hissing. Genk barrels into it, splattering it into the ceiling. One grabs a dagger in its sibling. It flies at Richard. A dagger sings into its hand, pinging the other one away. Deach is gone. I spot him panting behind a ruptured chair. He gives me a nod.

  He whirls and chucks another dagger. It ricochets off a cupboard and flies away.

  “For a moment there, I thought you might finally hit something,” I say, keeping Genk between me and the spawn.

  Deach throws up a middle finger. He thwips his holstered dagger and lands it square between a spawn’s eyes. I smile.

  Another spawn freezes suddenly, a small tangerine clock appearing before its face. Then it spasms, shuffles back, and shakes its head. Black sludge dribbles from its orifices. I grab it, heaving it toward the open window. Genk finishes the job.

  “Ignition.”

  I whirl.

  It’s a spawn. Fire sparks in its hands. I throw up a middle finger, chucking a handful of magic. The sparks gutter but remain. They flare brighter. Fuck me. Suddenly, time glitches. The sparks vanish. Then a puff of pink magic shapes into a heart.

  Jingles gives me a thumbs-up.

  “We’ve really gotta get you making pancakes more often,” I say.

  “Thanks,” they squawk, brightening. They’re wearing a ragged, striped Sondorian poncho with a pair of cut-off overalls patterned with pickles. They point at another spawn. A tangerine clock appears, and it spasms, shaking its head. Another wave of spawn washes in, tripping and climbing over bodies. Jingles incants, “Decelerate.”

  A tangerine clock appears in front of Jingles. With a taloned finger, they spin the hand backward. The wave of spawn slows, like they’re running through syrup.

  “Oka!” I belt. White dots appear over their foreheads. Oka’s feline pupils blow wide.

  Two impossibly fast shots ring out, dropping both between the eyes. Richard sends a head flying. Genk barrels through the rest, pasting them to the wall.

  Oka cracks his gun. Karla, cowering in the kitchen, hands him more shots. I turn to Jingles. “Can you do that the other way?”

  “Yep.”

  “Karla!” I call. A cave a couple ribs in a spawn's chest with a broken stool. “It’s time to dream big!”

  There’s a pause. Then comes the flipping of pages. “Tumefy.”

  Genk flashes blue. He pauses, looking down at himself. With a stretching, tearing sound, he grows sideways and upward. And then his horns brush the ceiling. I can only stare. He’s massive, ten feet tall. His hulking muscle's proportionate. I can only guess what else is proportionate.

  That’s not what I meant, but I’ll take it. “Jingles,” I croak.

  A tangerine clock appears. They crank the hand forward. “Accelerate.”

  Genk vibrates. I step backward. Lucy gapes, rooting herself to the floor. Deach skitters behind a chair, peeking around it. Richard grips his longsword, wide-eyed. Genk tosses his black mane, belting out a guttural, world-shaking roar. His eyes bleed crimson. He lowers his horns.

  And he charges.

  He barrels through a wall. It blasts apart like thunder. He tosses spawn through the ceiling, out the windows, into the floor, into each other. Dust flies. He grabs two and uses them as weapons. He swipes them away like gnats. They flee or find other ways around him. I pause. They’re not getting near the edges of the penthouse. There’s sunlight there.

  They’re still filtering through what was once the door – a short hallway. “Genk, push them back!” I yell.

  He charges what’s left of the hall, bowling through hordes of spawn crawling on the broken walls and ceiling. His shoulders widen the path. He’s barely scratched. Daggers and bullets fly into the rest of them. I grab my mandolin and strum a few chords, latching on a ley line, and a pink square appears. I drag it to the ceiling.

  Midmorning sunlight casts in.

  Spawn scatter, screech, and burn. Smoke and ash toil off them. Some flee toward us. A bullet stops one. A dagger stops another. One comes flying at me.

  No!

  A draconic roar splits the air.

  I nearly dive for the floor. A small, furry form flies at the spawn, latching onto it. Whiskey clambers, claws turning it into noodles. It panics, scrabbling for the rabid cat. They’re flung onto the floor. They scramble and right themself.

  Don’t touch him!

  They lash out, taking a mouthful of the spawn’s ankle. Meat and tendon come away. It stumbles. Whiskey tackles it over. They plant on its chest, horking and arching.

  A spray of holy fire incinerates it.

  Suddenly, it’s quiet except for the hammering of my heart and everyone's panting. Genk plods back inside, staggering against the leaning wall. He’s his normal size again. “They ran off, boss.”

  “You got me a little stiff there, I’m gonna be honest,” I say. Genk snorts. “Nicely done, team –”

  Another spawn comes out of nowhere.

  Richard is suddenly before me. With a roar, his longsword erupts with golden holy fire. He screams and swings overhead.

  The spawn explodes.

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  The room shakes. Haze settles in its wake. I come out from behind an arm. I’m sticky. We’re all misted with dark red. Richard slowly turns around. His front side is caked with thick, ashy blood. He’s almost unrecognizable.

  My stomach churns. I laugh, flirting with the idea of losing my breakfast.

  He wipes his face, smearing it more. “Gods above,” he mutters. He spits on the floor. “I can taste it.”

  “You can put your cock away now.”

  “I was trying to make a good impression,” he snaps.

  I turn to the rest of the team. Karla’s come out of hiding. Whiskey brushes against my leg, licking spawn sludge off me. “Is everyone alright?”

  A faint voice comes from across the sitting room. “I need help.”

  I go cold. Sven.

  I rush toward the voice, spotting his upper half under a destroyed couch. I squat and heave it away. He’s splayed in a small lake of blood. The back of my throat floods. In his back is a shattered panel of wood, deadly sharp. It might be poking through the other side. That would’ve speared Genk and me otherwise.

  “I can’t feel my legs,” Sven pants.

  Everyone's hovering. “Keep an eye out for more,” I say. I crouch, my stomach churning. “This is gonna hurt like a son of a bitch.”

  He grits himself, clutching the floor. “I’m ready.”

  I grip the wood, wrenching. It slides with a wet sound. He gasps. I yank again. He screams into the floor. It comes free. He pants, drenched. I toss it away and kneel beside him. The smell of blood is overwhelming. It’s got a faint whiff of seawater.

  “Sweet fucking hells,” I say to the ceiling. I’m gonna be sick. I snap out my pick, grab the nearest ley line, and strum my mandolin, singing:

  In unmentionable sludge, I’m festooned

  But something tells me that’s a lot of blood

  I dearly need this watery stud

  Light Daddy, please fix this wound

  My hand glows pink. I touch him and pump as much power into it as I’ve got. Pink magic shapes over him, mending ragged tissues. There’s a horrendous crack, and he spasms.

  “Gods,” he groans. He shuffles onto his elbows, rolling over. “I’m sorry. I’m a terrible bodyguard.”

  Not this again. I gesture. “I just pulled a wall out of you. You literally guarded me with, and I can’t stress this enough, your body.”

  “But what if –”

  “We’re not doing that right now,” I snap. I tap him on the nuts. “There. Can you feel that?”

  He grunts, curling and holding himself. He coughs. “Yes, Warchief.”

  I stand and turn to everyone else, clapping my hands. “That ‘getting out of here’ item is now first on the list. Karla, get the sky skiff operational. Everyone else, grab whatever’s left and get to the roof.” Thankfully, we still have some roof. We were smart enough to keep the sky skiff away from the sigil. But I may have overclocked it just a tiny bit.

  “I need Carrojack,” Lucy says.

  Shit. That’s right. “We’ll swing by and grab him on the way out. Oka, what’s the status on the carriage?”

  “It’s in storage a couple blocks over,” he says, fitting his gun back in his holster, his sleeves rolled back winsomely. He’s the only one not utterly covered in vampire sludge. “Sone and Konno are with me.” He taps his head.

  I heft Sven to his feet. He’s unsteady and limping on one leg, but he’s not bleeding out on the floor anymore.

  “Excellent,” I say. “We’re headed to Port Nakanai. We’ll get back to the Isles from there. Senior Dickcheese, have you got everything you need?”

  We whirl at the sound of a faint boom.

  It’s across the city. In fact, it’s in the direction of Richard’s apartment. We crowd around the broken window wall, peering at the toil of smoke pluming in the distance.

  “Victoria,” Jingles keens.

  Richard pauses. “She’s alive. I’ve told her to come this way. As for my belongings, I suppose that’s settled.”

  “Well, I can give you these…” I rummage in the pocket of my robe. I pull out a pair of purple underthings.

  He snatches them from me. “I knew you took something.”

  “You’re gonna want to wash those first –”

  He tackles me to the floor.

  Thankfully, nobody lost anything important in the blast. We gear up and toss our things in the magical bag. After much begging, I take apart Whiskey’s cat tree and toss it in, too. Twenty minutes later, we pile onto the sky skiff, covered in sludge. Baths will have to wait. Richard takes Victoria to save a bit of space.

  I snap out my pick as I climb aboard, grasping a ley line. “Some spawn came uninvited to my breakfast. I’m taking your Senior Justicar back to the Isles. I’m sure you heard the reason loud and clear.”

  Masato’s voice enters my head. Warchief. I heard a couple. I’m glad he’s safe. Don’t be away too long – we need you here. I’ll hold the line until you return.

  I take a long slug from my flask and pilot us down. We land in the road where Carrojack is stabled, much to the disgruntlement of the carriages. I throw up a couple middle fingers. They reconsider making an event of it when Genk makes himself known. Lucy ushers Carrojack. It’s a tight fit for everyone. We take to the air.

  Finally, the shell in my pocket vibrates. I grab it. “Are you still at port? I’m coming your way hot and fast, and I mean that in the unsexiest way possible.”

  Yeah, I’m here, Erson says. Why? Do you need a ship?

  “I need one ready by tonight. Knock whatever heads you need to.”

  There’s a pause. You SOLD the ship. I’m waiting on a pickup.

  “Steal it back,” I snap. “You’re a Vasterholmian fucking raider. What else are you good for?”

  There’s another long pause. His voice comes in tired and flat. On it, Warchief.

  Then we speed toward Port Nakanai.

  We meet The Biggest, Blackest Tide a few miles south of Port Nakanai for two reasons, both of which involve avoiding the authorities. It’s close to sunset, but we lash the sky skiff to the deck, then set the raiders to rowing the fuck out of there.

  Conditions are miserable. We’ve got nine extra people plus a cat, a wyvern, and an elk. I spoon myself and Sven into my bed on the sky skiff, with Karla and gnome-Deach taking bedrolls on the floor. Richard and Jingles sleep curled up with Victoria on the sky skiff deck. The rest find other places to sleep.

  We haul ass to the Isles. Sven and Genk man the oars, giving us extra speed. We run into a small storm, which eats up time. I can see Erson full of questions, but I don’t mention it. I’ve gotta tell him at some point. But I’m still putting it together myself. It’s hard thinking around the sight of a bucket and the tilting of my stomach.

  We’re a day and a half from the Isles when a knock on the door of my sky skiff wakes me from a miserable excuse for a nap. I whistle sharply, and the door flies open. It’s Erson.

  “Your timing’s not great, but better.”

  “Everyone else is outside, so I figured it was safe.”

  “On the contrary, I was just thinking about whacking off. What is it?”

  He’s wearing Vasterholmian armor of leather, furs, and chainmail, a long wool sailing coat over it, and his shortsword belted under his gut.

  Something feels odd, and I realize the ship’s not moving.

  “You’ll want to come out. I think there’s a mutiny in the works.”

  I sit up. My blood rushes. “Are you serious? What’s there being mad about?”

  “Come see for yourself.”

  I roll out of bed, shrugging on my chain jacket and belting on weapons. I sling on my mandolin, too.

  When I step outside, everyone’s gathered on the deck.

  The ship’s not moving because the raiders are all here. Nothing but ocean and horizon stretch past the railings. My team is corralled by the armored, armed crew. I do a quick count. Deach isn’t immediately recognizable. I pretend not to notice. I step toward them, hands on my blades. Whiskey appears at my feet.

  “What’s going on?” Richard demands. His hair’s especially dull today. I told him earlier, if only for the sour look.

  I turn to Erson. “Yes, Walstad, what’s going on?”

  My neck prickles when he draws his weapon.

  “I respect you and what you’ve done for the Isles, so that’s why I’m giving you a chance. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll take that and get lost.” He points his blade at a small skiff bobbing in the water. “The Guild will make me a rich man if you go away. But this offer is only good if you turn over Deach.”

  My blood goes cold. Or maybe it’s boiling hot. That’s what Carolus meant about getting their ships either way. I shouldn’t have trusted Erson. I knew that six years ago. He's impossible to get rid of, like a slimy corner of mold behind crates. The Guild’s gonna get their claws in him and rake back the changes I made. And Deach is gonna go back into petrification for… how long? Years? Decades? Centuries?

  And the rest?

  “Oh, fuck all the way off, you hoary quisling,” I spit. “I shouldn’t have expected better from you than sucking Irminric’s bowel-obstructed shit off the Guild’s cock.”

  He ignores me. “Lady Mesura, we’ll deliver you safely home.”

  “Like hell you will,” she throws back.

  He steps forward. My team goes to weapons. The crew, too. Sven lurks closer. Erson looks at him. “And Odegaard, you can stay on.”

  Sven snorts. “And you can eat shit.”

  The crew begins to close in. I glance around. These are all our best raiders. We’ll not get this ship back to Jor easily without them. But I don’t trust any of them left alive. And I thoroughly intend to kill Erson. “You think I forgot you’re a slaver. I’m gonna break your fucking nose again.”

  “Last chance. Where’s the shapeshifter?”

  That’s a good question. I keep myself from glancing around. The nearest raider is a hulking half-orc woman in leather and furs with a dark, shaved braid. She moves closer to Erson.

  A chime dings in my head. She catches my eye. I pause.

  It’s only then that I realize I could try and get out of this alive. I could leave her. I could leave everyone. I could vanish into the comfort of my own company, wandering the world and never caring beyond my next meal, my next drink. I could give up on the god who gave up on me. I could live off the hoard of gold in my magical bag – retire as a red-haired innkeeper, slap my swords on the wall, and wait for someone to tell my story. I could leave Horonai to its own, letting someone else clean up their vampire mess.

  But it’s also then that I realize I’ve not felt lonely in weeks. It’s then that I realize I’ve got friends here. There's something indescribable in Deach's eyes. It’s then that I realize there’s light in this darkness, and I’m looking at it.

  I sigh. I guess I’m doing this again. I grab my mandolin, bringing it around –

  “Stop him!”

  Chaos breaks loose. Raiders fly at us. Weapons clash. Sven bashes one with his shield. I jump behind him. A shot rings out. Blood splatters. I strum chords quickly, wrenching a ley line. A pink square appears in my vision.

  I slap it on the deck underneath Erson and thrust it all the way down.

  The ship bucks. He totters aside, feet missing the expanding edge of the deck. He trips and catches it, pulling himself up. I pull out my whip. I snap it, coiling the end around his ankle. I yank.

  He plunges into the watery lower deck.

  “Karla!” I bellow. “Get Carrojack!”

  He’s trussed down there. I hope to the gods she knows what I mean. She scurries down the stairs, Oka clearing her a path with his gun.

  “Warchief!” It’s Sven, his back to me. He slashes ferociously. “What's the plan?”

  “Free the sky skiff!” I yell over the clashing. I snap my whip out, slapping a raider in the face. She flails back, clutching it. I draw my blade. “Fuck me!” Pink flame erupts. I slash it across her neck. Blood hisses off the flame.

  “Lead the way!” Sven calls. “I have your back.”

  “I’ll arch it for you if you get me out of this,” I call back. I coil up my whip and draw my other blade.

  “In a Warlord-honoring way –”

  “There’s no world where that’s not positively gay.”

  He laughs. And we move toward the sky skiff.

  I slash and hack, spinning and ducking. Sven keeps me untouchable from the back, an absolute bulwark of Vasterholmian potency. I risk a glance around. The ship’s filling quickly, riding low in the water. Genk charges and gores a raider into the sea with his steel-tipped horns, splatting another on the deck with his maul. It splinters. His eyes are crimson. Lucy skewers a raider with a wooden spear-hand. She pulls it out and bats a shield away. She spears it through. A hook sprouts off the end. She wrenches it back, pulling innards with it.

  Richard is holding his own among a group of raiders. He slashes, his longsword lighting up with gold holy fire. It sets one ablaze. They flail and screech, jumping into the water. The flame doesn’t extinguish. Victoria swoops by, grabbing a raider in her claws. His screams and sobs fade as she files off. Jingles is flapping overhead, pointing at raiders, wearing swim trunks and a bikini top. Arrows whizz by. A tangerine clock appears before a raider. She pauses, and blood trickles from her nose and eyes. A resounding boom rings out. I whirl. Oka is perched on the sky skiff cabin. He’s prone, his rifle perched on the edge, tucked against his whiskered, mustachioed cheek. The moored skiff starts sinking, a group of raiders scrabbling into it. A hole’s blasted in the hull. A draconic roar scatters another group. Whiskey latches onto a back, scrambling upward and peeling the face off a raider like a potato. They jump to another one and claw at her neck, taking a bite. Blood’s caked on their face and paws. I don’t see Deach, but that’s a good thing.

  I slash at a raider three times, sending them back. I leap and whirl, coming down hard. Bone chips. I kick them away and wrench my shortsword out. I bring it down hard on another, gutting them with my other blade. Sven batters a raider with his shield, running them through. He whirls and plants a foot, sending another one over the rail. I move forward, and we arrive at the sky skiff.

  It’s lashed down. I sheath a sword and throw my shoulders into hacking at one of the ropes. It cleaves through. Karla scurries over in her high heels, a light blue aegis of magic hovering before her. Clasped in her hands is a turtle. She’s wide-eyed, raiders coming after her. A raider’s head blasts apart with a boom, and the others think better of it. Oka offers her a hand up, and she sets the turtle on the deck. Blue magic puffs around it. It turns into Carrojack. He clops and skitters nervously.

  “Lucy!” I belt, hacking through another rope. Sven holds the line, bashing back more raiders, his long seaweed-colored braid whipping around. “Get over here!”

  Lucy turns, spearing another raider and charging toward us. “I like it when you boss me around like that,” she pants.

  I barely have time to smile. Genk winds up and drives a raider clear into the horizon with his gravity maul. Karla clacks past me.

  “I’m going to help this time,” she says, more to herself than to me. She breathes, consulting her notebook. Then she waves her hands. “Mutate.”

  A swirling puff of blue magic emanates from her. She vanishes, and then reappears. Or at least, something does.

  A shark lies on the deck. It’s got sharp, glittering blue eyeliner.

  She flops. The longship bucks with it. A raider comes at us. She cracks him with her tail, sending him into the water. She snaps at another one, missing.

  “Odegaard, cut these ropes!” I call. “Jingles! Get the skiff going!”

  Sven takes over, hacking the ropes holding the skiff to the deck. Water laps across it. Jingles lands a moment later behind the control panel. I showed them how to drive it in Guildania. It paid off.

  I hustle over and plant my shoulder against Karla, pushing. I strain. She’s leaden. I’m covered in sweat. She flops more, rolling. The longship tilts.

  She plunges into the water. She flicks her tail and vanishes. A moment later, the water foams red.

  That’s when Erson reappears.

  He emerges through the hole in the deck, soaking wet. He pulls himself to his feet and shakes water off, gasping. He pants, drawing his shortsword. His eyes fall on me. His lined face becomes hard.

  “I’m gonna send you to Ricky,” I spit, pointing with my burning blade. My blood spikes. “Give the lord of hell my regards.”

  He grunts and charges. I meet him in the middle.

  I feint and leap, coming down with a sword. He’s not there. I duck. I spin and slash. Blood sprays from his thigh, pinking the gathering water. I slash again. He blocks it with a clang. He swipes. I block it with my crossed blades. He slashes again. It rakes across my stomach. It burns. Another slash comes. And another. I chuck magic at him. A bright pink flash sends him reeling. I pursue.

  He howls when a dagger staples his foot to the wet deck.

  Deach appears in his half-elf form, wearing his dapper shirt and waistcoat with tight pants. He smirks. My chest flutters. He lobs the dagger from his sheath. Erson swats it away with his shortsword. It reappears. I circle to his other side. Deach and I put Erson between us. The water’s ankle-deep on the deck. Richard's mounted on Victoria, swooping up survivors from the water. One vanishes in a foaming fountain of blood and a glimpse of a shark fin.

  The sky skiff hums to life, free of its restraints. Genk’s on board. He crushes raiders climbing onto it. Lucy’s helping with her wooden hand-spear.

  “Mr. Seven Oaks! I recommend boarding this here sky skiff posthaste,” Oka shouts. He’s sniping raiders in the water.

  Erson reaches down, wrenching the dagger free from his foot. Red bleeds into the water. He chucks it away, hobbling toward me.

  Deach catches my eye and nods.

  We make a dance. Erson whirls between us, slashing and watching his back. I draw his attention and toy with him. Deach lands a dagger where it hurts most. But he doesn’t kill Erson on the many chances he has. He could easily land a dagger between his eyes. Instead, Deach pokes Erson full of holes, blood pouring down his armor and wool sailing coat.

  I block a couple swings, ducking another. He’s close. I land a fist in his crotch, hidden by his gut. He doubles over. I ram a knee up. His nose splatters. He grunts.

  “I told you I would, you absolute waste of your father’s dribble,” I hiss.

  He growls, clutching his face. I stagger away, catching my breath. A dagger flies, knocking his shortsword from his hand. It’s lost under the water. It’s shin-deep now. We need to get out of here.

  “You should be ashamed of yourself,” I heave. “I was willing to believe in you, and I don’t do that lightly. I still remember it all.”

  “That’s your mistake, not mine,” he says, but it’s terribly nasally. Blood pours into his beard.

  “You really are Imrinric’s man. You can shit yourself and die like the rest of them.”

  A dagger lands in the back of his leg. He stumbles, coming to a knee in front of me. I line up and thrust. Blood pours out, sizzling. He gurgles and grimaces and clutches the pink, burning blade in his heart. I wrench it out, blood flying. And then he keels over.

  The ship bucks again. Water rushes upward. There’s a terrible sucking feeling. The deck drops out from underneath us.

  Suddenly, I’m underwater. It’s that exact moment I realize I don’t have a water-breathing spell this time.

  I fumble my weapons into their sheaths. I’m not losing another one. It’s cold and salty. Bubbles dance by. In which direction? Which way’s up? I thrash, swimming with everything I’ve got. It’s not enough. The ship’s sucking everything down. The dampened sound of air and water rushes past. I’m not making progress – in fact, I’m losing it. Unending darkness yawns below, the massive, thalassic, pale green ship falling into nothingness.

  Where’s Deach?

  My blood roars. This is too familiar. Blackness claws at me, the rushing, foaming waters of my mind burbling to the surface and past the seal. My spine is electric. Is a spiky black form reaching for me if I turn around? I whirl. I’m still sinking. Bodies are rushing downward with the ship. Is one of them Deach?

  My lungs burn. My chest aches. I’m shaking. I can taste blood and seawater. I can feel a claw around my throat. My head pounds. The ship’s almost gone. Light begins to fade. I kick with everything I have. I’m not gonna make it.

  After all this, I’m gonna die alone down here like I thought I would the first time.

  Arms wrap around my chest.

  Suddenly, I’m going upward. I’m rocketing toward the surface, but not fast enough. My lungs sear. I see spots. My limbs are numb. My chest hitches. I suck in water. It’s cold.

  Then there’s air.

  I flounder, heaving out burning water. I hack and cough, rattling in huge lungfuls of air. My blood hammers. Light and dark swim in my vision. I’m shivering, soaked, and heavy. My legs hardly work. I can barely keep myself afloat. The arms leave me. I sink again.

  “Got you. Hang on to me.” It’s Sven. He holds me up. I nearly cry.

  "Where's Deach?" I croak.

  "We're looking for him. Come on."

  I cling to his broad shoulders and greedily suck air. He swims to the sky skiff, lower body waving like a tail, like he was born for this. The sky skiff bobs on the roiling waves rather than hovering. Huge black arms hoist me onto the deck. I flop onto it, gasping and rattling. Lucy's there. Her fingers pull at my mandolin strap and belt, tugging me out of them.

  “It’s okay. Just keep breathing,” she says, clapping me on the back.

  I retch. A bit more water comes out. I cough out the rest, my chest aching. Blood pounds in my head.

  “Somebody tell me where Deach is!” I rasp, louder.

  “There!” Oka points.

  A shark fin surfaces, a sputtering and waterlogged Deach clinging to it. My stomach melts in relief. Genk sets him limp on the deck. I glance around, doing a quick count. Everyone’s here. I pause. We’re missing –

  Human. Help. I’m wet. Human, I’m wet. Wet. Help.

  Looking like a drowned rat, Whiskey paddles toward the sky skiff. Their gold eyes are pools of frantic black, their nose barely above water. They’ve got something in their mouth. It’s a finger. Deach reaches down to grab them. They make an abrupt turn toward me, evading him. I roll over and scoop them up, wringing water from their drooping fur. I clutch them to my chest, then plop them on the deck. They shake their head, sending water flying. Their found finger plops wetly on the deck, and I nudge it into the water.

  “I thought you’re not a cat,” I rasp.

  I hate it. Fuck the wet. They lick their paw and rub it over their face.

  “You’re right,” I pant, collapsing back on the deck. My blood's throbbing for the cool burn of whiskey. “Fuck the wet.”

  Sven surfaces, and I half expect him to sail onto the deck like a fish. He climbs aboard, then turns and spews seawater overboard. Karla’s back to her regular dwarven self, and Genk hauls her from the water. Eyeliner and mascara dribble down her face. Richard and Victoria land. She tucks herself in and bobs next to the sky skiff. Oka hands out towels from the cabin. After some coaxing, he starts drying Whiskey. Lucy removes my soaked chain jacket, feeds me a potion I barely taste, and puts her cloak and hands under my shirt to chafe some warmth into my chest. There’s discussion about which way is south as Jingles takes the sky skiff to the air. Mercifully, the rocking stops. My limbs barely work, and I stay put at Lucy's suggestion. I can’t stop shaking.

  I fumble the seashell out of my chain jacket and sling it into the ocean.

  Deach crawls over, flopping facedown in the sun. He’s out of his leather armor, wearing only his soaked clothes, his tanned skin water-pale. He’s shivering even harder than I am. He turns his head toward me, murmuring, “Are you okay?”

  I shuck off my shirt, wrap up in a towel, and lie back down. I’m freezing. “It was close there.”

  “Yeah, same.” He looks at me for a long beat, something intense in his seawater-irritated eyes. Water dribbles from his mussed, chestnut hair. “I’m glad you’re still here. I’m a little surprised you didn’t leave.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  He shrugs. “Sometimes, you have this look like you’re going to run. I thought this might finally be the time.”

  I’m not sure why my throat tightens. Maybe it’s the thought that we’re facing a vampire lord and his cabal set on killing us. Or maybe the fact that I’ve run headlong into worse. Or maybe it’s the thought of not seeing Deach again if I fail. “We’ve got a job left to finish.”

  He only looks at me for a moment. He opens his mouth and then closes it. Then he says, “I’m still in it if you are.”

  “I’m with you until the end,” I choke.

  Moisture comes into his teal eyes. He wrestles his wet shirt off, then flops onto me, wrapping his arms around. I pull him close. Our warmth huddles like two guttering flames. He smells like seawater, but when I brush my face against his neck, there’s the faint whiff of pine wood and citrus. And we stay there, letting the warm, comforting sunlight dry us.

  We quickly realize we’ve got no food.

  After Deach and I recover ourselves and change into dry clothes, I poke around the small hold and find some tents, bedrolls, and daggers, but no rations. I rifle through my magical bag. There’s only a few nut bars and preserved fish. There’s a couple jars of food for Whiskey. I even find a moldy taiyaki in unfortunate proximity to two halves of a fake Guild card. But it’s nowhere near enough.

  The best we can tell, we’re about halfway to Jor. It would’ve been around three days by ship, but when it comes to being over water, the sky skiff's got all the urgency of a hobbled zombie. It might be two or three days more before we return, Oka says, assuming there’s no inclement weather and that we’re heading in the right direction. We could go without food for that long, but it’ll be miserable. I don’t dare call for another ship. I might just be alerting more friends of Erson, intent on tying up the Guild’s loose ends. And it’s best if I vanish for a few days to keep everyone guessing what happened. I’m angrier than ever that I’ve lost my nondetection spell. We keep our vase as central on the sky skiff as possible.

  Sven weaves a net with some rope from the magical bag, then tries dredging up fish. Oka snipes some gulls, and Karla retrieves them as a dolphin. We cook them with my shortsword. There’s a couple hunks of firewood in the hold, but we’ll have to ration it. Karla can make drinkable water with magic, at least. Richard takes a whole bucket to get the salt out of his stringy hair.

  “Alright,” I say as we eat. Whiskey’s gnawing on a small fish they caught themself, horking it down in pieces. It’s enough to replenish what we used during the fight, but it was a whole lot of effort for not much reward. Nighttime’s coming fast. “Let me get hold of my wife and see what I can do.”

  Lucy’s brows pull together. “You’re married?”

  “Absolutely. You know,” I point at her. “We should do a couple’s date sometime. I’m sure she’d love to meet you and Dain. We could swap stories, as it were.”

  She winks at me. “That sounds excellent.”

  I head to the prow and sit, dangling my bare feet through the rail. I lean my head against it for a moment. My bones are aching for some whiskey. At least I've got no chance of finding any out here. I snap out my pick and grasp a ley line. “Long story, but some friends and I are stranded in the middle of the Southern Wash. We need food – could you call in a favor?”

  Arriel’s voice replies in my head a moment later. She sounds sleepy. What? How – never mind, I won’t ask. I’m glad you’re safe. Have you prayed about it? Iros might be able to help you more directly.

  I already checked my catalog, and I can get packs of ginger sun cookies for a sticker each, but that’s it. It’s a hundred stickers for a minor boon, if that counts, but I’m nowhere close. I tease the ley line again. “He’s been sparse with communication lately, although he sent me a cat. You got me drunk in a jail cell, can’t you do something similar?”

  There’s a long pause. Let’s try something a little more practical before we jump straight to miracles. And I’m sorry — he sent you a cat? How many are you?

  I turn, looking at the team – at Sven, Genk, and myself especially. And Lucy and Richard. I grab the ley line once more. I’d lavish a dragon turtle if it meant I could talk to her through my illusion. “Twelve plus an elk. Also, have you ever heard of a god called Lomir? They’re some newfangled thing in Guildania. The High Priest mentioned it.”

  Her reply is more wary. I think I’ve heard it, but didn’t think anything of it. I’ll ask here. Something will be there in an hour. I’ll message… when… ready.

  I smile and return to the team.

  An hour later, I get another message saying something’s incoming. I post everyone. Magic suddenly channels. We easily spot a flash of swirling, crackling, rainbow-colored teleportation magic materializing in the darkening sky. A large barrel drops into the ocean, bobbing. Sven strips naked, and I get an eyeful of the handful he’s got down below. He’s got some knotted tattoos I didn’t know about, and some delightful bonus fat, too. He dives in and easily retrieves the barrel. I heft it onto the deck. Genk rips it open like pulling the lid off a cup.

  It’s chock full of food. There’s preserved fish, fresh fruits and vegetables, nuts, yogurt, baguettes of hearty bread, cheeses, and salted goat and gazelle. The barrel’s even got a cold enchantment on it. Everyone cheers.

  I snap out my pick, teasing a ley line once again. “Dearest Lady Arriel, more radiant than the morning sun, thank you from the depths of my wretched, adoring heart. And tell Lespira she’s spot on.”

  You’re welcome. You’re lucky you left your flask. Also, she says she got full marks on her Thorhild essay thanks to you. Whatever that means.

  I find myself smiling and don’t reply.

  The next couple days, we ration the food and add to it with Sven’s catches and Oka sniping whatever flies over. It’s cramped quarters and, frankly, fucking boring. Jingles, Karla, and I take turns piloting. When I’m not driving, I entertain. I do Thorhild and the Titan again, which easily kills an afternoon. I play music and tell stories of how I almost got burned at the stake in the rural swamps near Lesoysk, how I bullshitted my way into a banquet for the emperor of the Bellenstein Dynasty, and how I caused the collapse of a noble house in Galran, getting caught with their daughter in a shit shack. Mostly, we sit around and chat about nothing. Nobody wants to talk about the Guild right now – there’s nothing we can do anyway. Sven takes a swim often, even diving off the top of the cabin. Richard mostly keeps to Victoria, which frees up room. He offers rides to anyone interested. I turn it down, still not convinced I won't end up separated from my spine if I step wrong around her. Carrojack doesn’t love being confined to the skiff, either. True to her word, Arriel sent along grass and feed for him. I feel bad for delaying my promise to Sven to let him assfuck me, but in a cramped sky skiff cabin with seven people just outside, shit will be a problem.

  Whiskey’s in a foul mood when they’re not watching gulls, both because of the ample water and the lack of things to do. I use my illusion to give them something to chase, but there’s not enough room. They beg me to put their cat tree together. Knowing them, they’d knock it into the ocean. I find some toys kicking around in my magical bag, but they quickly lose one over the side of the skiff and are inconsolable.

  The days pass. Finally, the Byrian Isles come in sight. I won’t say we’re home, but we’re somewhere close.

  What if cultivation was engineering?

  Engineer mind + Taoist cultivation + Blacksmith MC

  He died. He glimpsed infinity. Now he's building his way back—with a hammer.

  No shortcuts. Just a nine-year-old forging lightning generators and formations in a dying kingdom.

  ? Daily Updates ? Slow-Burn ? Real Cultivation