Maksym Pachesiuk
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Old Grudges and Treachery - Chapter 4
🕑 Added 2025-09-16 09:04:01 +0000 UTCI hesitated only briefly before opening my third eye. The world bloomed with magic—colorful sparks pierced the air, threads of various elements stretched from the compartments, and in the hunter standing at the far end of the carriage, a black, primordial darkness had taken root. The greatest concentration of it wasn’t in his lower abdomen, in the elemental source, as I had expected, but in his spiritual heart, where the darkness had squeezed out even the last remnants of the blood magic inherent to every human being.
Well, that was the last thing I expected to encounter on this train. Werewolves weren’t like vampires. They were far more emotionally stable in their human form, but under a full moon, they completely lost control. A guaranteed pile of corpses. And yet, this one stood there so calmly...
It dawned on me that the moment for a fleeting glance had passed. What I was doing now was already bordering on suspicious. So, I turned sharply and knocked on the door of the next compartment.
A furious Finella opened it.
“We are not talking, you snob!” she announced.
“Oh, I beg your pardon—so now this is my fault as well?” I retorted just as aggressively, gave Spark a shove on the shoulder, stepped inside, and shut the door behind me.
“Have you lost your bloody mind?” the sorcerer asked, sparks of fire flickering in her hands.
I pressed a finger to my lips. Werewolves’ hearing was just as sharp as that of shifters, so I had no intention of speaking aloud. And we'd staged our fair share of dramatic scenes before.
“Oh, I’m the one who's lost it?” Finella huffed indignantly, while I pulled out my much-abused notebook. I really needed to get a separate one, so I’d stop ruining the enchanted pages.
While Finella doubted how to respond, I quickly scribbled a note: “There’s a werewolf in the carriage.” I showed it to the girls.
“You know,” Finella said, “I think you’ve just completely lost it. So much so that I won’t even bother getting offended.”
“Not sure I follow your logic. Though my cousin Evan did warn me never to look for logic in a woman’s mind.”
On the page, however, I wrote: “Stay alert. Don’t leave the compartment unless necessary.”
“Oh, piss off, you and your cousin both!”
“You know what? I think I will!” I shot back.
The werewolf-hunter was still standing by the window at the end of the carriage. For a brief moment, our eyes met. I only hoped I’d managed to look away with an expression of indifference before stepping back into the compartment.
The note I had written now lay in front of Kettle.
He read it, snorted, twirled a finger in the air, tapped his temple, then raised a questioning brow at me. I snatched the paper and scribbled on the back: “There’s a hunter at the end of the carriage. Go ask him.”
Kettle read it, considered for a moment, then shook his head. Instead, he reached under his arm and drew a revolver from a concealed holster. That caught me off guard.
Still, I needed to prepare as well. I trusted my weapons—I’d taken them apart and oiled them often enough back home. Spells, though… My spellwork was still embarrassingly slow in combat. And casting them in advance wasn’t ideal either—after all, the fight might never happen.
Potions, then.
I pulled out two vials of enhancement—speed and precision—from my satchel and handed one of each to Simon. Biting off the cork and swallowing the contents would take no more than a second—if we had that second to spare.
I was still convinced the fight might not happen at all. The werewolf might have simply sensed my heart, which was why he had been staring. But the full moon was—damn it, I should have been tracking the cycles—at least ten days away, if not more.
He should be able to think clearly.
Now it all depended on how far gone he was in his transformation—and just how tempting my heart seemed to him.
Vampires turned irrevocably once they experienced death. Werewolves, on the other hand, changed gradually—by devouring the hearts of their prey. Even after a few transformations, one could still be cured of lycanthropy. The treatment was free for anyone infected, but it was long, traumatic, and excruciating—unless you had at least a few dozen thousand pounds to your name.
And then, of course, there was the law.
For every life taken, one had to answer to justice. The same law dictated that anyone bitten by a werewolf must immediately undergo a medical examination for signs of infection. This was why werewolves were more often executed than treated. And I, for one, was not well-versed enough to tell, just by looking, how far the hunter’s transformation had progressed.
Outside, the evening darkened.
With the peaceful rhythm of wheels against the tracks—and our nerves strung tight as bowstrings—we crossed the border into Bremshire. Another hour and a half later, the train gave a long whistle as we pulled into Avoc’s central station.
We grabbed our luggage, and Kettle allowed himself a joke.
"Looks like you really do need your head examined."
He did it in the corridor, in front of the girls. Finella immediately burst into laughter.
"I told him the same thing!" she said.
The station’s granite and marble gleamed under the yellow glow of countless lamps. Passengers bustled to and fro, while the loudspeaker garbled the arrival and departure announcements. And yet, beneath all that mundane routine, there lingered a faint, sweet scent of home.
God! I was home.
Even my mood lifted.
"Duncan!" A familiar voice rang out.
I turned my head and saw my favorite cousin.
Sally waved excitedly, practically bouncing in place as she clung to her husband Chris McLilly’s arm. Next to them, smirking, stood his younger brother—Bryan, who had been my babysitter more times than I cared to count.
With a determined stride, I headed toward my family. Sally couldn’t contain herself—she let go of her husband and launched herself at me, wrapping her arms around my neck.
"You’ve shot up, you little brat!"
I blinked in surprise. Had I actually gotten taller?
"Not as much as Logan," I countered, "and is that any way to talk to your elder?"
"Oh, shut it. I’m three years older than you," she retorted. "And Logan—well, he never stops surprising us. Now, introduce me."
I introduced my friends to my family, but even as I spoke, my eyes caught something familiar—a hunter’s hat and a gun case.
The werewolf was heading for the station exit. Into Avoc, where his kind were not welcome.
Sally noticed the shift in my expression and quickly followed my gaze.
"Oh, come on," she muttered—one of her favorite catchphrases.
"Can you gauge his strength?" I asked. Sally was good at that. She could also see weaknesses. And in the year we’d been apart, perhaps Ferrish had blessed her with a few more talents.
"Weakling," she said. "Might not have even seen his first full moon yet."
"Care to enlighten us, Kinkaids?" Chris asked, catching onto his wife’s tension.
He hadn’t sensed anything himself, and that was odd. Chris was a strong shifter.
A fleeting thought struck me. This time I had identified the shifter by posture alone, without even looking into the subtler layers of magic. But if I had before…
"Bryan, remember how I slipped away from you on the train?"
"Concealment amulet? Who?"
"The hunter," I said. "Move out, people."
"Moon?" Chris asked his wife. "Werewolf?"
"Him."
We gathered our bags and moved as one toward the exit.
Technically, the station was neutral ground. Bremshire did not welcome the undead or half-breeds, but a good number of them were Duthigh citizens—passport holders, taxpayers. Travel within the country wasn’t restricted.
Strictly speaking, the Earl had no legal right to impose restrictions on non-humans. But tradition was another matter entirely. And our clan held to tradition.
The werewolf was playing with fire.
Sally slipped her arm free of her husband’s. The young couple took a few steps apart, giving each other space to maneuver. Chris unfastened the collar of his coat, flexing his fingers as claws slid from his hands. Then, he took command.
"Duncan, stay out of this—you and your lot. That goes for everyone."
“Easy, brother, easy,” Bryan stopped him. “Rein in your commander’s fervor and tell us first—what exactly are you planning to do?”
“Bryan, have you lost your damn mind, questioning orders?”
“When was the last time you actually hunted, brother? You and Duncan—when was your last real hunt? Before the little brat was even born? And what about training?”
“I’m still—”
“You’re not,” Bryan cut him off. “Shall I remind you who the deputy head is here?”
“More like the errand boy,” Chris muttered, but he swallowed his pride and acknowledged the seniority. “Fine. You take command.”
“We can’t rule out the possibility that the werewolf isn’t hostile,” Bryan said.
Chris and I snorted in contempt.
“I don’t believe it either,” Bryan conceded, “but we’re obligated to consider the possibility. If he really hasn’t seen his first full moon yet, he might not know the local rules. It’s our duty to enlighten him.”
“And who’s doing that?” Chris asked, downing some potion as he walked. “You?”
“Obviously,” Bryan said, drinking his own. “I have the best chance of surviving if he doesn’t take it well. Now, here’s how it goes. I stop him and close in to striking distance, then start talking. At my signal, everyone demonstrates their strength. If this turns into a fight—Chris, Sally, you move fast and make it count. Guests stand back and do not interfere! Duncan, that means you too. Sorry.”
“Understood.”
“We can help!” Finella protested.
“You haven’t trained for coordinated combat,” I told her firmly, handing out vials to the Farnellers. “Our job is to spread out and make sure the werewolf doesn’t break the perimeter.”
“Exactly,” Bryan confirmed.
We left the bustling station and stepped onto the evening-lit square, where cabs waited at their ranks.
The hunter had already raised his hand—one taxi pulled away from the pack of idling motors and rolled toward the curb where the werewolf had stopped.
Bryan broke into a run.
“Drop the bags!” I ordered.
The sudden thud of luggage hitting the ground drew the hunter’s attention. He turned—just in time to see a crowd rushing toward him.
His eyes instantly flared red like burning coals. His jaw lengthened, thick yellow fangs sprouting from his gums, while coarse fur spread across his face. His spine deformed, hunching forward. Nails blackened into claws, fingers stretching beyond his sleeves by several inches.
The werewolf threw his arms wide and let out a menacing snarl.
His hat, surprisingly, remained on his head. But in the taxi’s headlights, the sharp, taloned hands were unmistakable.
The cab’s engine roared—the driver slammed on the accelerator, tires screeching as he bolted from the scene. The people around us had no such hesitation. They scattered, fleeing the anticipated fight.
We, however, charged straight at it.
Still, Bryan stuck to the plan—negotiation first. He slowed earlier than intended, stopping just outside the werewolf’s reach.
“Easy there, furball! If we wanted you dead, we wouldn’t be talking.”
With a snap of his fingers, Bryan split in two.
I knew it was just an illusion—I could even tell which one was real—but the werewolf wasn’t so lucky.
Sally ignited a tiny flame at the tip of her dagger. Chris growled, his face shifting into something half-feline. A beat later, Ellie’s eyes flashed. She reached into the folds of her skirt and produced a sizable cleaver before leaping a full ten meters to land behind the werewolf.
Finella—ever the show-off—lit up her hands with two massive fireballs, while Kettle crackled with a bright electric charge between his palms.
And me?
I simply pulled out my trusty FN. After all, I wasn’t about to scare him off with a torch.
In mere moments, we had him surrounded.
Bryan and his double smirked, splitting apart to circle him at a dangerously close distance.
“I’ll assume, sir, that you’re unfamiliar with Bremshire’s laws,” Bryan said evenly.
“I haven’t harmed a soul in this cursed city,” the werewolf growled.
“That’s the only reason you’re still alive, sir. State your business in Avoc.”
“Hunting,” the werewolf rumbled, gesturing with a clawed finger toward his gun case. “I enjoy a bit of rabbit shooting.”
Beyond the station’s columns, the first pair of constables appeared—but McLilly gave them a sharp signal to stay back.
And really, there was nothing to argue. Not even the season. Hares, grey squirrels, rabbits, badgers, stoats, and martens were all officially classified as pests, making them fair game all year round. But McLilly had found another loophole.
“Do you have a clan permit?”
“I’m not planning to hunt in Bremor Forest,” the werewolf shot back. “Is that all you wanted to know, warlock?”
“Almost,” Bryan replied with a pleasant smile. “Where did you undergo your lycanthropy screening?”
Clawed fingers tore into his stomach, sinking two phalanges deep.
The illusion vanished.
The real McLilly was sent flying into Kettle, knocking him over like a skittle. The werewolf lunged at me next. He must have assumed I was ungifted—the weakest target.
My first shot, an armor-piercing round, was stopped by a shield shimmering violet—but the amulet on his chest shattered in an explosion of shards. Fireballs from Finella and something from Sally struck him from behind, finally knocking his hat off.
I activated stone skin and the shield in my ring at the same time.
The beast’s claw, aimed at my throat, slammed into the invisible barrier, sending me sprawling along with it. I tumbled backward.
Chris leapt onto the creature’s back, his claws sinking deep, his teeth tearing into its neck without hesitation.
The werewolf let out a yelp—like a kicked mongrel—grabbed Chris by the collar, and ripped him off. With a single motion, he hurled the elder McLilly back through a third-floor stained-glass window of the station.
The move cost him. He had to turn and Finella’s searing beams of fire slashed an X across his chest. From Sally’s blade, another tiny flicker of flame shot out, punching straight through his gut.
The constables joined in, unleashing a hailstorm of bullets and spells.
The werewolf howled in agony so fierce it made my ears ring—but he wasn’t going down. His coat and shirt had burned away in tatters, sliding from his muscular, fur-covered torso. Beneath the scorched patches, rune tattoos gleamed.
Some of them glowed with the green of blood—which, I suspected, was why the deep wounds on his back were sealing up and the burns were shedding like dead skin. The other runes were starting to ignite. That was not a good sign.
I didn’t get up. I aimed from the ground and squeezed the trigger.
The werewolf went wild, lunging at the constables. My shot clipped his ear—along with a chunk of his scalp.
Standing in his path was a small figure—Ellie. He swiped at her. But a blade flashed, and he lost a finger instead. Goat was fast.
The werewolf charged, trying to barrel through her, to crush her beneath his weight.
But Ellie spun, dodged, kept slicing—wounds that closed as fast as they appeared—but she held his attention, forced him to focus on her while the constables scattered.
Sally circled, struggling to get a clean shot without hitting Ellie. Finally, she positioned herself behind him and drove another flaming blade through his side.
The werewolf staggered mid-swing, lost balance, and fell to one knee.
Ellie broke away instantly. The constables opened fire. Finella and Kettle, now recovered, added their spells. I steadied myself and kept firing enchanted rounds. Sally took another precise shot.
The creature’s forward knee exploded in flames.
Now it was tearing at the asphalt, snapping at the air, rabid with fury.
“Hold fire!” Bryan ordered.
His coat had five gaping holes, soaked in blood—but the warlock bounded forward like a grasshopper, utterly unfazed.
“Hold fire, he’s in a berserker state—he doesn’t see us! Maybe we can—”
The werewolf cut him off with a deafening roar, ripped a chunk of asphalt from the ground, and tore it apart with his teeth.
I had no idea what illusion Bryan had cast, but judging by the sheer madness in the beast’s eyes, his magic had only gotten sharper since the last time we fought together.
Another stained-glass window shattered inside the station. Chris—pissed off like a cat whose mouse had been snatched away—landed on all fours, sprang forward in two bounds, ducked under the werewolf’s arm, and ripped out its throat in a single motion.
“…alive,” Bryan finished sourly. “Chris, for fuck’s sake!”
“Huh?” the shifter blinked. “He’s still breathing. You can finish him off if you want.”
The werewolf was still alive—wheezing, rasping through the gaping hole in his throat, pressing his claws to the wound, stubbornly refusing to die. Bryan stepped closer—but not too close. The creature’s regeneration had stalled, but there was no need to test his luck.
“I wasn’t after a trophy! If we can restrain him, we can interrogate him.” He glanced at Sally. “What do you think?”
My cousin circled the monster, assessing his state.
“No idea. He might not make it on his own, but if we interfere… could get messy.”
Bryan frowned, but he made a decision fast. He turned to the nearest constable.
“You got reinforced shackles?”
“Earth’s Roots—in the station locker.”
“Go get them.” He pointed at another officer. “You—call the Chief. We need a special transport and a containment cell.”
The werewolf was barely hanging on. By the time the shackles arrived, by the time they got them on, he had already shifted back into human form.
Fresh skin sealed over his throat. His regeneration had flooded the wound with fluids, closing his airways completely. His face turned blue, the whites of his eyes ruptured with burst blood vessels, turning them red with blood.
No one rushed to help.
Only after the shackles were secured and activated, and they had lashed him up with thick ropes, did Bryan finally give the order to treat him. Chris drove a claw into the base of his throat, holding the wound open just enough for the man to suck in air with a whistling gasp. Only once his face regained its color did Sally pour a potion down the hole.
By then, the armored police truck had rolled up outside. The prisoner was loaded in without resistance—he had burned through nearly half his muscles trying to regenerate.
“I’m going with him,” Bryan announced. “Don’t miss me too much. Have a fun.”
“If by fun, you mean what just happened,” Kettle muttered, “I’ve had plenty.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Sally assured him. “Avoc’s a sleepy little town.”
Comments
Jonathan Griffith
Tyftc!
