My good mood vanished the moment I got home. Not because of the long journey, that wasn't the problem. It was Robert's funeral preparations. His body had been washed, dressed, and taken to the chapel for the last watch.

What bloody watch?! What body?! He should be alive! Uncle had taken this too far.

I sent my friends to rest and headed to Uncle Gordon's, to return the car and get a brief update. The clan still believed Robert was dead. Tension and unease were rising, but no one was blaming me. If anything, it felt like the entire clan had united against an external threat.

Bryce had miscalculated badly. Only his reputation was suffering for it. How exactly they had switched Robert's body, Uncle Gregor didn't know, but I had a strong feeling McLilly was involved. I hadn't seen him at the Clanhall.

Uncle Gordon also mentioned that Sean Feron had visited the chapel earlier in the day. As for the last watch, it was being kept by the Feron sisters, Alexa and Morgan, the same two who had come questioning me. They were distant cousins to Robert, which made their selection an odd one, given that he had closer relatives.

The whole situation was a mess. But if I was going to maintain the story, or at least avoid looking like the bastard I felt like, I needed to go to the chapel.

If Logan had been home, he would have offered to come along, and I would have agreed. But Logan wasn't home, and though Uncle Gordon offered, I didn't want to go with him either.

We had returned from the Cave of Blades at dusk, but by the time I left Gordon's, night had fully settled. I paused on the doorstep, pulled out my spellbook, activated the rear-view spell, and headed straight for the chapel. It wasn't far, just a couple of houses away.

Soon, I stepped onto the broad clearing, where the lone chapel stood, with the garden stretching beyond it. Logan and Jenny had wanted to hold their wedding there. For obvious reasons, that was now indefinitely postponed.

My thoughts kept jumping from one thing to another, skirting the white building and its stained-glass windows, avoiding the weight of memory. The chapel stirred unpleasant recollections — my own last watch, my grandfather's death, my fight with Simon.

I hadn't even noticed how much I'd slowed, until I was standing at the door, unmoving.

Get on with it.

I gripped the handle, took two deep breaths, and pushed the door open.

Two startled squeaks, then four shotgun barrels snapped up, pointed straight at my face.

"Duncan, for fuck's sake!" Alexa shrieked. "Why the hell would you do that?!"

The sisters were badly shaken.

"Sorry. Just got back… And, well… I don't like this place."

The vision hit me — scattered candles on the marble floor. A bullet hole in that wall. A shattered window. And the coffin. Grandfather had lain there.

The breath I let out was so bitter that even the girls took pity, lowering their guns.

"Come on," Alexa muttered, masking her nerves with rough humour. "He's not kicking up a fuss anymore."

I stepped forward. Looked at the body, lying in the classic pose of the dead. Just like a real corpse. Which was to say, too perfect.

Illusion?

Last time, Simon had been in that shadowed corner. This time, Bryan could just as easily be hiding there.

I opened my third eye.

Nothing out of place by the wall. Same result when I studied the body. But I still didn't touch it. Instead, I noticed something else. A faint mist curling from the inside of the coffin.

Mist — the best element for crafting illusions. There were also small, barely visible wisps of the same element floating through the chapel.

The sisters, on the other hand, shone like a cascade of jewels.

Underneath their clothes, and in plain sight, they were draped in charms and amulets, probably every element imaginable.

They were watching me.

Probably easier to look at me than the coffin.

During my watch, I had distracted myself however I could, even brought a book. But my eyes had always drifted back to that wooden box.

I knew people usually said something. Some final words. But what the hell did you say to a corpse when the man was alive and well, sitting in the Clanhall basement?

I stood there.

Thought for a moment.

And then turned around.

"Hope no one bothers you again," I told the girls, then stepped outside.

The cold night wind swept away the heavy mire of candle smoke and incense, leaving only emptiness in its wake. And that emptiness wasn't in a hurry to be filled.

My feet carried me home along the familiar road, despite not having walked it in nearly a year. A pint or two of strong Guinness wouldn't go amiss tonight. I reached the first house past the clearing. The Baileys lived there.

And there, and the nearest streetlamps flickered out.

Thanks to my rear-view spell, I caught movement — a rustle in the hedge behind me.

I spun sharply, drew my Bulldog.

A shadow detached from the bushes.

In a flash, it became a man, a figure draped in black, closing the distance. A hand shot out, gripping my wrist, thumb jamming against the hammer, locking the revolver in place.

The other slammed into my face.

Pain exploded through my skull. Like someone had driven a massive iron bolt into my head with a single blow. A flash of light, then darkness, then stars. And cold. The stars stayed.

And I realised — I was lying down. On soft, damp grass. There should be cobblestones.

"Get up, Kinkaid. Stop acting like a bloody virgin."

The voice came from my side. I turned my head, forcing my vision to focus, the same black figure loomed over me. But there were no bushes now. No streetlamps. No houses. A car instead.

My eyes refused to adjust, stubbornly reducing everything to black circles instead of a clear image. But as far as I could tell, there were no roads nearby either. Just rocky ground, a few shrubs, and a twisted, gnarled tree rising behind me like some ancient horror.

Seemed like the only landmark around.

One to remember, in case I made it out alive.

I pushed myself up, keeping my hands close to my sides, checking for weapons. Whoever had taken me, they'd been thorough. My FN was gone. So were the Bulldogs. And my satchel of potions.

I rolled my shoulders, straightened my chest, trying to tighten my jacket and feel for Uncle's hidden blade. Then realised, the jacket was unbuttoned. And my fingers were bare. Even my rings were gone.

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Damn.

The blade was still nearby, somewhere in the car, too far for me to reach. The only thing they hadn't managed to take, was what I could do.

I opened my third eye and scanned the man's etheric body. A green sun burned in his chest, runes spinning and intertwining within it.

A warlock.

A damn strong warlock. One who either didn't bother hiding it, or was deliberately showing off.

"Who are you?" I asked.

The man raised a hand. An orange spark flickered to life, casting just enough light to cut through the darkness.

Under the brim of his wide hat there was Sean Feron's face.

"Recognise me?"

The spark vanished, snuffing out the glow before it could give away our location.

Shit! My chances of walking away from this had just plummeted to zero.

If it was really Sean, I was as good as dead. If it was a fake, summoned just to kill me, they'd at least give me time to report the identity of my "attacker". Not that he'd answer honestly. But still, worth a try.

"So it was you," I said. "You killed Robert."

"What?" Sean scoffed. "Did I hit you that hard? Or were you already losing it?"

"Think about it. First, a Kinkaid kills a Feron. Then a Feron kills a Kinkaid. Perfect way to rip the clan apart."

"Not a bad plan," Feron admitted. "Hate to disappoint you, though. I'm real."

"Prove it."

"Oh, gladly."

Sean stepped to the car; popped open the boot; pulled out a shovel and threw it at me.

"Go to the tree."

I caught it mid-air, frowning.

"What's this?"

"It's a shovel, Duncan," Feron said dryly. "A tool, for digging."

"What, you expect me to dig my own grave? Piss off."

I tossed the shovel back.

Sean caught it easily, shaking his head.

"That would be entertaining as hell, and immensely satisfying, but no. Your job is to dig up someone else's."

The shovel came flying back at me.

I caught it, but didn't move.

"Explain."

"Dig the body up. You'll understand."

"Not good enough. Sounds like you're saying you're not planning to kill me."

"I'm not," Feron confirmed. "As much as I'd love to bury you right here, I can't afford that luxury."

"Then," I threw the shovel back again. "Prove it."

Sean snatched the handle, stepped forward and slapped the flat of the blade across my face.

I hit the ground again. Didn't even have time to blink. The speed —

It was on par with Lucas Lindemann during our sparring.

"I swear to God, I'll beat the shit out of you, you bastard!"

The shovel slammed into the ground, an inch from my ear.

"Take the bloody thing and start digging!"

"Go to hell!"

The kick caught me in the ribs, lifted me clean off the ground, and sent me rolling. I barely had time to curl up, hands clutching my sides, before the next blow landed. Then another. And another. And another…

Ribs cracked. Dirt and grass smeared into my clothes. Sharp stones ripped through fabric, scraping skin beneath. I rolled again and only stopped when I hit a hollow near the tree.

Sean let me catch my breath. Let me feel it.

Then he tossed the shovel again, letting the blade slam into my face. I barely managed to shield myself with an arm.

"Take the shovel and start digging," Feron said flatly. "Or we're not talking."

"We're not talking anyway!" I snapped.

Got another kick for my trouble, and tumbled out of the hollow.

"I bloody hate Kinkaids," Feron declared. "Arrogant, self-important, stubborn as mules. I swear, it'd be easier to kill you than negotiate."

He jammed the shovel into the dirt. Chunks of earth flew into my face and chest. I rolled aside, gasping for breath.

Sean dug like a man possessed.

The pit growing deeper by the second.

Then he paused, glanced at me and warned, "Try running, and I'll break your legs."

I didn't run.

First, no way I could match his speed. Second, why the hell would he go to all this trouble? If he'd meant to kill me, he'd have broken my legs first. Made me suffer longer. For his own amusement.

Before long, the pit reeked of death. The shovel struck bone, scraping with a dull screech.

Sean stopped. Climbed out.

"In you go."

"Not happening."

"Duncan!"

I met his gaze. Didn't doubt for a second, if I refused, he'd make me.

"What am I supposed to see?"

"Look at the fangs."

I jumped down.

Something cracked. Something squelched.

The stench hit me like a punch to the gut. I nearly choked. Nearly scrambled out immediately, but my battered ribs protested, slowing me down.

Sean laughed and tossed me a small bottle.

"Rub it under your nose."

I did.

The cold burned, numbing my face, and with it, the stench vanished.

I stepped back down. Planted my feet wide, bracing against the walls of the grave to avoid stepping on the body.

Sean had cleared the dirt from the skull, but in the process, had scraped off the rotting nose. Nothing left to reconstruct a face. But the lips remained intact.

Mostly.

A few worm tracks ran through them.

"Pass me a knife."

No way in hell I was touching this thing with my bare hands.

Sean moved to the car, popped the door open, and returned with Uncle's gift.

I cut into the corpse's lip right above the left fang. Lifted the rotting flesh with the tip of the blade. Tried to pry the fang loose.

Failed. Metal scraped against bone.

Third time lucky. The tooth came free. It was thick. Long.

"Not a nestling," I noted, climbing out.

Wiped the blade on the grass, polished it against my trouser leg, slid it back into the sheath and tucked it into my inner pocket.

Sean stared. Then snorted.

"You're joking. Rumour had it you'd picked up some experience in this line of work over in Farnell."

"I don't go around prying into every bloodsucker's mouth… Master?"

"Oh, thank Christ," Sean exhaled, almost relieved. "Grab the shovel and cover it up. And stop looking at me like that! I did the digging, you do the burying."

I picked up the shovel and started filling in the grave. Wincing at the pain, I held out a hand. "Healing potion."

He didn't refuse. Which meant he definitely weren't planning to kill me.

Still had no clue what the hell was going on, though.

"Start talking," I said.

"He came to me two months ago." Sean watched me stabbing the shovel into the dirt. "Ground was frozen solid. Nearly killed me, digging that hole."

"Focus," I asked.

"He told me about my son."

My shovel swung wide, jerked too sharply. I almost pitched forward into the grave.

Sean cursed.

"Bloody hell. I knew it was true, but… I still hoped, somewhere deep down —"

I could throw the dirt in his face. Then slash his throat with the blade. Or hurl my dagger, adjust the trajectory on the way down.

"Don't be stupid." Sean's voice cut through my thoughts. "If I wanted you dead," He paused. Laughed bitterly. "No. Let's be honest. I did. I really, really did. I wanted to kill the whole bloody lot of you. Still do."

"What stops you?"

"Sharon."

A mistress?

I jabbed the shovel into the dirt pile, pacing. Trying to shove this mess into some kind of order in my head. What kind of hold does this woman have on him? And if she does, why is he telling me this?

"Details," I demanded, grabbing the shovel again. "Don't make me drag it out word by word. You want to negotiate — start talking properly."

Sean spat. Cursed. And took the plunge.

"Sharon's pregnant."

I nearly toppled into the grave again. Jerked so hard, the dirt flew off my shovel, right into Feron's face.

He swore furiously.

I barely heard him.

Everything slotted into place. There it was. The unknown variable that had forced him to the table. We would have found out about the child sooner or later.

If anything happened to one of our kids… Maybe I'd hesitate. Maybe Logan would, too. But Sally… Sally would tear his throat out to protect her son.

And Evan?

Bryce?

With his "practical decisions"?

He'd have used the child to crush Sean completely.

And as for Sharon, God knows what would've happened to an unwed mother and her illegitimate child. Bremor had no need for another vengeful Feron.

"A Kinkaid kills a Feron. A Feron kills a Kinkaid," Sean murmured. "Like you said, perfect way to shatter the clan. And more than likely, they'd have done it using my face."

His voice hardened, flattened, like someone had wrung the last drops of emotion from it.

"You killed my son."

Sean held himself together. I should have done the same. But that final accusation ripped open a flood of memories. Dragged up emotions I shouldn't have given in to.

"He had it coming," I said. "He turned my grandfather into a vampire."

Silence.

Nothing but the furious scrape of the shovel against dirt.

"What kind of bollocks is that?" Sean finally muttered.

"Oh, so your fanged little mate didn't tell you everything?" I feigned surprise. "And you actually believed him?"

"He gave me Simon's journal."

Sean's voice was unreadable. "The years after he left the clan. There's a lot missing, entries are sporadic, but the meeting with the vampire? That's detailed. He never named him, but I put two and two together. Asked around. Noah Valentine, the one you had trouble with. Now explain your bloody nonsense."

"Remember my last watch?" I let the words hang. Let them sink in.

"It wasn't as smooth as everyone thinks. Grandfather rose. As a vampire."

"The werewolf tore him apart."

"And then your son poured vampire blood into his body. With a healing potion."

Sean froze.

"When Grandfather rose," I continued, voice low, "your son stepped out of the shadows, and ordered him to kill me."

"I only survived because Grandfather resisted."

"Does Bryce know?" Sean asked, then caught himself. "Of course he does. Otherwise, you wouldn't have made it back from Farnell alive. But why hasn't he used it? You're lying."

"And why would I?"

"Blood feuds need to be finished. If Simon really did this —"

Sean cut himself off.

Didn't need to finish.

I knew what he meant.

"And what would be left of the clan?" I asked.

"The Baileys would likely side with you. The McLillys, with us. Logg, McLal, Boily, Kink — they might stay neutral. Until the first drop of blood is spilled."

I let the words hang.

"Clans have fallen apart before, Feron. And you don't want that future for your child any more than I do."

Sean exhaled.

"And Bryce held back…" He gave a humourless chuckle. "I'll admit it, he makes a better leader than I ever would have."

He fell silent, lost in thought. And that settled it.

Sean wasn't going to kill me. The paranoia at the back of my mind screeched that this could all be a lie! But I told it to shut up. I wasn't about to drive myself into a bloody madhouse.

I kept shovelling, not speaking again until I'd finished, until a neat mound covered the grave. It wouldn't last long. By the first heavy rain, it would sink down.

"That everything?" I asked.

"Not quite."

Sean's voice was steady. "Tell Bryce I want to talk. Tomorrow. After the funeral."

I nearly slipped up. Nearly told him there wouldn't be a funeral. Who knew how far Uncle would take this game?

"Why wait?" I offered instead. "Let's go now."

"That was the plan." Sean sighed. "But after what you just told me… turns out there's a lot I don't know. And even more I don't understand."

I snorted.

"Ha! Welcome to the club. That's my normal state of being."

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