Maksym Pachesiuk
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Old Grudges and Treachery - Chapter 3
🕑 Added 2025-09-16 09:03:02 +0000 UTCMy birthday had unexpected consequences—we were all invited to a wedding. Logan didn’t care—what’s another ten guests when you’re already inviting three hundred?
But the thought of babysitting our reckless company didn’t exactly thrill me. At first, I didn’t even take it seriously. Then, somehow, the girls worked their magic on their families—I have no idea how—and suddenly, it was too late to back out. Their families had called Aunt Mary, and I had simply been presented with the fact.
For a time, I had hoped to rely on Knuckles—Harry’s training was slowly but surely turning him into a serious man. But by April, it became clear that Harry wouldn’t cope without him. Construction had begun at the Anvil. The old manor had been torn down, and we had moved into tents pitched in the park. The ether, once contained by the carvings on the walls, now spilled into the air, attracting spirits and ghosts like moths to a flame.
Cap had already caught ten jars' worth.
Harry, seeing the free influx of ectoplasm, called Peter back in and started revising the blueprint. Originally, he had planned to trap the source within a narrow bottleneck of stone walls at the centre of the building. Now, he intended to give it some freedom.
While Harry and the architect argued, the lads and I cleared the site using telekinesis rods. Normal people struggled to stay in a place of power for long. Nathan and I carried a piece of ether within us, and Clint had simply gotten used to it.
Once Harry had reached an agreement, we had to dig a new foundation pit, shifted to the right of the old one.
Now, the place of power pressed against the left wall of the new manor.
In the future, Harry planned to carve containment and restriction runes into it. For now, the workers had just started laying the foundation. The pressure of the ether was draining crates of earth magic reservoir stones. But even that didn’t speed things up much—regular masons wouldn’t work there for more than a couple of hours a day, and their protective amulets limited their use of enchanted tools. So we had to work our arses off as well.
That’s probably why I welcomed Saturday, April 10th, 1937, with open arms.
The Sparrow brothers had to stay behind, toiling away like galley slaves—but I had a train to Avoc! Even a grumpy Kettle couldn’t spoil my mood. We had been assigned the same compartment. The girls had taken the one next door.
Roughly five minutes after departure, they moved in with us—and once again grilled me about home: Avoc, Bremor, and my entire family.
After ten minutes, the baronet started nodding off and kicked them out—for which I was eternally grateful. They tried to drag me along, but I had an excuse ready.
"Oh, come on," Finella huffed, waving a dismissive hand at Simon. "He partied all night—fine. But what’s your excuse? It’s ten in the morning!"
"Have you any idea how hard Harry’s been pushing us lately?!" I grumbled. "On-site from dawn till dusk! And he hasn’t forgotten about studying either! I’ve got a suitcase full of books and two notebooks packed with assignments. Feels more like I’m going on a training course than to a celebration!"
That last part wasn’t even a lie—the wizard hadn’t held back on the homework. Not that I planned on doing any of it right now. But having vented, I realised that sleep wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
Within minutes, I was out like a light.
I slept through half the journey, four long stops, and didn’t even hear the whistles. I only woke when someone started pounding on the door.
"Who the hell is that?!" Kettle grumbled, dragging himself up and yanking it open.
A wave of alcohol and cologne washed into the compartment. I pried my eyes open for a second, hand slipping under my arm to check for my pistol—just in case. But I didn’t bother getting up. I let the baronet deal with the visitors. Assassins rarely wore bright yellow plaid jackets.
"Gentlemen, our sincerest apologies, but might we trouble you for a hand of bridge?"
The not-so-sober voice belonged to a young man, his face obscured by Kettle’s silhouette. He attempted some sort of card trick, but the deck slipped from his hands, scattering all over the floor.
His companion scrambled to gather them up.
"Simon!" his companion chastised him.
"Simon?" the baronet echoed, and I tensed.
"Simon Fielding," said Plaid Simon, tipping his hat. "At your service."
"Simon Kettle," the baronet replied.
His tone warmed by a degree.
"Another one!" Plaid Simon declared.
"Simon Wilson," his companion introduced himself.
A shiver ran down my spine in perfect formation.
I sat up, slid my left hand into my coat pocket, and discreetly moved one of the Bulldogs to my jacket pocket. Shame I couldn’t grab a potion without being noticed.
"Duncan’s awake!" Kettle announced, sounding positively cheerful now.
"Shall we join the lads for a hand of bridge?"
"Why not?" I agreed grimly, hoping they’d chalk it up to lingering drowsiness.
"Give me a moment—nature calls. Please, have a seat."
I gestured to Plaid Simon, offering him my spot, and took a good look at his face.
Young, ginger, freckled. Round face, short curly hair, brown eyes, bulbous nose. Thick lips, twisted moustache ends curling upwards.
The other one was dark-haired, moustached as well, but with slicked-back hair, drenched in brilliantine, parted perfectly down the middle.
Yes. Hard to suspect clowns like these of being killers.
Turning my back on them was unnerving—but I forced myself to walk out, playing the part of a man going to the loo.
I kept expecting a blow the whole way. They didn’t follow. But that didn’t mean they wouldn’t stab me in the back.
In the lavatory, I splashed water on my face, retrieved my notebook from my breast pocket, and attempted to cast a rear-view spell.
The first attempt failed.
The spell was too complex, too large for me. But definitely necessary.
I turned the page, took a breath, and activated the duplicate version. Then followed with spells of acceleration and accuracy. Only then did I step back into the corridor.
The door to our compartment was open. The guests were laughing loudly, telling some joke. Kettle was chuckling along.
I approached the girls’ compartment as quietly as possible and tried the handle.
Locked.
I jiggled it again, hoping they’d notice.
They did.
The door swung open abruptly. I pressed a finger to my lips before Ellie could give me a piece of her mind—and she absolutely intended to. I could see it in her burning eyes. Finella, too, had things to say—her hands were quite literally ablaze.
I gently pushed Goat inside and shut the door behind me before whispering:
"We have some… rather strange guests."
The girls stiffened.
"Vampires?" Ellie asked first.
"No idea. Haven’t checked."
"I caught a scent in the carriage," the shifter admitted.
"You can do that?" Finella blinked.
"Learned it recently," Ellie murmured.
"I don’t know what they are," I said. "But I plan to find out. The moment I step back inside and close the door—take positions by the sides and be ready for a fight."
I reached for the handle.
"Wait!" Finella whispered. “What tipped you off?”
"Their names."
"What about them?" Spark demanded.
"Simon! Three of them! In one compartment!"
Finella slowly extended a hand and placed it against my forehead.
"Feels normal."
"Oh, ha-ha!" I swatted her hand away. "Laugh it up. But I’m serious. Prepare for a proper fight—like in the slums."
That, at least, got through to Ellie. She had killed her first vampire in the slums—and hated thinking about it ever since.
I stepped out of the compartment and immediately entered the next one.
The Simons had set up the table and dealt the cards. Plaid Simon jumped up, offering me his seat by the window. But I wanted to stay by the door.
"Sit," I allowed, closing the door and turning the lock.
Both guests’ eyes flicked towards the sound. And yet, their eyes didn’t shine.
"Oh, sir, what are you doing!" Plaid Simon rose, stretching out a hand as if inviting me to swap places.
I didn’t let him touch me. In an instant, my guns were drawn. The Bulldog hovered in front of Plaid Simon’s face, while the FN pointed straight at Parting’s.
"Sit down," I ordered Plaid Simon. "And don’t do anything stupid."
"What the hell, Duncan?!" Kettle demanded.
"I’d like to know that myself," I said, examining our guests through my third eye.
Plaid Simon had a trickle of grey mist swirling in his lower abdomen. Parting had an etheric spark in place of a third eye. Their energy nodes weren’t well-developed, but they were enough—enough to use enchanted objects. Like the deck of cards on the table.
"Hands where I can see them."
"Uhh, sir, you’ve got the wrong idea about us," Plaid said hesitantly.
"And what idea would that be?"
The two exchanged glances. Then glanced at the door.
"Dunca-an?" Kettle drawled. "Explain."
"I don’t understand anything yet myself. Search them."
Kettle started with the one closest—Parting.
He rifled through his jacket pockets, both inner and outer, and dumped the contents onto the table: a notebook, a steel pen, a set of keys, a spectacle case, another deck of cards, and a passport—which he immediately opened.
"Ludwig Sterling?" he read. "Not only not Simon, but not even Wilson?"
Kettle reached into another inner pocket and pulled out a second passport. He raised an eyebrow, flipped it open, and smirked.
"Arthur Stone. No, wait a minute—"
Kettle picked up the spectacle case, shook out the glasses, put them on the imposter, ruffled his hair to get rid of the perfect parting, and with one swift motion, ripped off the moustache.
"This is Arthur."
"Stop messing around," I ordered. "Keep searching."
The baronet shot me a disapproving look. He was about to snap back, but sighed instead, diving into the man’s trouser pockets. To the collection, he added:
A folding knife, a handful of coins, and another spectacle case—but this one contained picks, not lenses.
"Neck, forearms, and ankles," I advised.
Our clan trained us for situations like this. And Parting’s left sleeve was shimmering with mist in thin matter.
Kettle tugged at it and produced a set of ten playing cards—all middle-rank, from sevens to jacks. The other sleeve held a classic double-barrelled derringer—a smaller cousin to my Bulldog. The imposter didn’t dare to use it while my FN was pointed at his head.
The second man had a similar assortment:
A fake moustache, two passports, cards, a pistol up his sleeve, a large knife tucked behind his calf, and a pocket full of change.
"Well, gentlemen," I said. "Are you sure I’ve got the wrong idea about you?"
That phrasing was deliberate. Because I wasn’t sure. They seemed more like conmen than murderers—but it was worth checking.
"Tell me your story. You must have one prepared."
The strangers exchanged glances.
Plaid Simon spoke first:
"Perhaps, sir, you could lower your weapons. We’re unarmed."
"No," I said flatly. "In case I don’t like your story, and I have to shoot you."
The other one snapped first.
"We overheard a conversation!"
"Go on."
To motivate him, I shifted the FN’s barrel slightly to the side—so the black void of the muzzle wasn’t pointing directly at his face. It created an illusion of safety.
The criminal element felt emboldened—and started chattering like a magpie:
"We were in the dining carriage, listening in on two ladies complaining about a drunkard named Simon and a snob named Duncan, who were fast asleep in their compartment. From their conversation, it was clear—one was sleeping off a bender, the other was either exhausted or pretending to be. Either way, people fresh out of sleep aren’t the most observant.”
"Like, for example, running into three Simons?" I asked.
"We usually settle on one name," Plaid Simon interjected—probably not a fan of having a gun in his face. "We were experimenting."
"Then why Simon?" I asked. "Why not Duncan?"
"Because," Kettle said cheerfully, "you’re a snob!"
"And you’re a drunk," I reminded him.
The baronet shrugged carelessly.
"A reputation built over years."
"Simon’s just a more common name," Plaid Simon said.
Kettle snorted.
"I’d say the same thing if someone had a gun pointed at me."
I ignored him and gestured for Dark Simon to continue.
"From their conversation, we figured out your compartments were next to each other."
"Al walked the ladies back—"
Ginger Simon shot his companion a glare so fierce it could have stripped paint off a carriage.
Ah… Real name.
Dark Simon realised his mistake too late.
His speech slowed, his face morphed into a mask of profound shame, and he continued, much less confidently:
"So, we decided… to pretend to be drunk and… win a little from the gentlemen at cards."
"Win a little," I echoed skeptically.
"Well, yes…" Plaid Simon admitted, still very much aware of the gun in his face.
"We’re not monsters, after all. And it’s dangerous, stripping people down to their drawers. You never know who you’ll run into…"
"People often pull weapons on you?" Kettle asked.
"More often, it’s magic and relatives," Plaid Simon replied.
"And sometimes we just get punched in the face," his colleague added.
"Oh, I might cry," I said, lowering my guns. "Alright, convincing enough, but let’s double-check."
I tossed the Bulldog into my pocket and opened the door.
The girls were at the ready—Ellie’s eyes were glowing, her face frozen on the brink of shifting, while Finella cupped her hands, a small flame flickering between her fingers.
"So, I’m a snob, am I?" I asked them.
"Who told you such nonsense?" Spark asked.
Ellie signalled her to shut up. With her hearing, she had undoubtedly heard everything. Finella caught the gesture and scrambled for a way out.
"You’re just… overly diligent."
"And you’re a terrible liar. In fact, I’ve yet to see you do anything well."
Finella bristled, uncupped her hands, and raised the right one, the flame burning between her fingers.
"I could trim your hair real quick!"
"Guys, don’t fight!" Ellie tried to calm us down.
"And you," I told her, "have an unhealthy compulsion to make peace and protect everyone."
I stepped aside.
"Take a look. Familiar faces?"
The girls peered inside, took one glance at the crooks, and declared in unison:
"No."
"I was sitting with my back to you, ladies," Plaid Simon explained. "Grey jacket."
"And I was wearing glasses," added his friend.
He reached for the table, then paused, looking at me for permission. Only after I nodded did he put them on.
He grabbed the comb without asking, ran it through his brilliantine-soaked hair three times, and—just like that—his parting vanished.
"Ah, yes!" Ellie nodded. "I remember him now."
"Much obliged, ladies," I said. "Now back to your compartment."
"Oi! We’re curious too!" Finella protested.
I shut the door in her face.
Snob, am I?
I gave the crooks another once-over, tucked my guns away, and pulled a handkerchief from my breast pocket. Then I tore it neatly in half.
"Allow me to introduce myself, gentlemen."
"Duncan Magnus Kinkaid, Baron of Loxlin. Apprentice wizard."
I tossed the fabric to them.
"Cut your fingers and drop some blood onto the cloth."
Ordinary folk know little of magic. Crooks like these? They know a bit more. They know that a simple severance ritual renders their blood—or any part of them—useless for magical purposes. But it has to be performed before their blood falls into the hands of an enemy. And that’s precisely what I was counting on.
"Why the hesitation?" I asked, retrieving my spellbook.
There was one spell in particular—practically useless, but quite pretty: Lantern. A small glowing orb of ether, nothing more.
I summoned it.
To a layman, it looked no different from battle-grade energy spheres, of which there were a million variations.
"Have mercy, my lord!"
"Spare us!"
"What nonsense have you imagined now?" I sighed. "I’m not going to kill you, nor am I going to torture you. Just marking you—so I know where you are. The tags will fade in a week, no more."
Whether they believed me or not, they cut their fingers all the same. I ushered them out of the compartment and told them to wait.
Kettle, meanwhile, asked if there was an equivalent ritual for sorcerer.
I tapped my knuckles against my forehead, then opened the window and tossed the cloth out. Kettle understood immediately and burst out laughing.
Once the crooks had finished waiting patiently in the corridor, we called them back in.
I gave each of them a drop of healing potion for their wounds—then forced them to play bridge, letting them cheat but making them explain every trick they pulled. Over and over.
That was when I discovered something interesting.
My rear-view spell allowed me to peek at my neighbour’s cards through the mirrored surfaces of the compartment. In the polished brass, the suits were faint but visible. I had no intention of using this cheap trick—but the fact that it was possible was interesting enough.
So I made a point of keeping the spell going as long as possible.
Two hours flew by—quick, engaging, and highly educational. By the end of it, Ginger had grown bold enough to swipe my Bulldog.
I saw everything. Didn’t let on. And, to my own shame, didn’t feel a thing.
They had skill.
So I proposed exchanging contacts. Not that I approved of their profession—but life is rarely black and white. And with my luck, I’d probably need some very specific advice at some point.
Of course, I didn’t expect honesty. By the time my week was up, they could easily disappear, along with any contact information. So…
"Let’s do this," I told them.
"Here’s a list of phone numbers." I wrote them on a clean sheet of my notebook and ripped it out.
"Call when you settle somewhere—leave a way to reach you. Preferably a phone. If I need your expertise, it’ll likely be urgent—within a few days at most. So a phone is best. But a postal address will do. And don’t make a mess in Bremshire."
"And if you’re ever in Farnell," Simon added, scribbling down his own address and number, "drop by. I know a few tossers with money burning holes in their pockets."
I gave him a pointed look.
Kettle just waved it off.
We stepped out into the corridor, shook hands, and parted ways.
The crooks were pleased—we had let them leave with not only their belongings but also a small portion of their winnings. Simon went back into the compartment.
I, however, froze—sensing a stranger’s gaze.
Suddenly, my rear-view spell reactivated. It had nearly faded after our game.
A man of average height stood a little way down the carriage:
Worn hunting jacket. Hunter’s hat with two brims. A rifle case slung over his back. Staring straight at the back of my head.
The spell dissolved—it had already lasted far longer than expected.
I turned.
The man quickly looked away, pretending to be staring out the window.
Comments
Jonathan Griffith
Tyftc!
