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Chapter Text

Why was Geralt roaming the musky halls of a high school in the dead of night? Sometimes he asked himself questions like this as he passed dented soda machines and half-assed ASB posters. It certainly didn’t pay enough—no bounty and only the promise of selling some monster parts on the dark web. But a senior boy had been found with his throat slashed open and all his blood drained, and it seemed only the responsible thing to do to keep more kids from dying.

It should have been an easy job—he had even told Milva not to bother getting a babysitter. He could handle a few garkains on his own and they had left a trail so obvious he could follow it by smell alone.

But he was not alone. His witcher senses picked up soft human footsteps and the scents of laundry detergent, deodorant, fruity chewing gum, and gun oil. Geralt slipped behind a corner and into the shadow of a bank of lockers.

Slowly, almost silently, the police officer rounded the corner, looked past him, scowled, and walked on. Geralt’s pupils adjusted in the darkness. The man was young, dark-haired, and built like an action figure—exactly the kind of model who would appear on a recruitment poster. Geralt recognized what he had already suspected. It was the same kid who had had questioned him after he was seen prowling the woodland park with his silver sword, checking for monster dens.

Geralt was always careful, but in a city of two hundred thousand, it was hard to stay unseen. He had already been arrested a couple of times for trespassing, but it usually only resulted in fines. However, this particular cop—Cahir, if Geralt remembered right—was getting to be a real pain in the ass.

As Geralt tracked him through the school, he could only hope that Cahir would leave quickly and just get out of the way.  This was supposed to be quick slay, and he wanted to be home in time to watch the new episode of The Great Kaedweni Bake-off with Milva. She would record it for him, he knew, but it wasn’t the same as watching it together.

Cahir circled the cafeteria and stalked down the hallway to the gym. Unfortunately, Geralt wasn’t the only one following his movements.

A dark creature dropped from the ceiling behind Cahir. It raised its elongated arms and sprang toward him. Cursing his luck, Geralt unsheathed his silver and rolled forward to slice open the back of the garkain’s legs. The beast fell to the ground shrieking and one clawed hand swept at Geralt. He bent nearly in half to avoid its arc.

A whoosh of air at his back warned him of the second vampire. He dodged but not fast enough as claws ripped through his jacket and up over the back of his neck. He rolled again, avoiding a second blow and came up to see Cahir raising his gun with both hands. The cop fired repeatedly into the vampire’s face. It recoiled backwards, lightly wounded but furious.

Meanwhile, the crippled garkain on the floor crawled and scrambled toward Geralt, fangs extended. Geralt sank to a crouch and sliced off its head in a clean upward stroke. Dark blood sprayed the wall and Geralt’s extended arm.

Cahir swore, pulled a second clip out of his uniform, and loaded his gun with speed and efficiency that almost impressed Geralt. The generic bullets wouldn’t kill the monster, but they kept it at bay, distracted it long enough for Geralt to get in a good position. When the second clip ran out and he didn’t have to worry about getting shot, Geralt leapt behind the garkain and dispatched it with a series of rapid strikes. Its mangled corpse sank to the linoleum floor, spreading a stinking pool of blood and viscera.

Geralt wiped off his blade on a yellow butcher paper banner hanging off the wall, and slid it onto his back, meeting Cahir’s wide eyes. The officer was still holding his gun—dropped to his side now—staring between Geralt and the messy bodies on the floor.

“That’s why you shouldn’t follow me around,” Geralt said gruffly.

“Those were actual vampires,” Cahir said incredulously. “I knew all those reports weren’t animal attacks!”

“Best if you forget about this,” Geralt advised. “Your department definitely will. Just go home, get a beer and watch some boxing, or whatever.” He drew his knife and sawed at the first garkain’s maw, taking its fangs. With any luck, some rich dude in Zerrikania would buy them online.

“You’re bleeding,” Cahir said. “I’ll call for an ambulance.”

“Seriously, do not do that,” Geralt said. “This is barely a scratch. And I already got a guy already who fixes me up. I’m heading there next. Now please, go home.”

“Is this what you do in your spare time?” Cahir asked “Are you one of those Flaming Rose vigilantes?”

“No, and no.” Geralt put the teeth from the second garkain in his bag and closed it up. “I help people for money, this is my job. I don’t kill things and people for funsies, like those fucking witch hunters.” He stood and started down the hall. “If you keep following me, you are definitely going to get hurt.”

“Is that a threat?” Cahir asked, still following him.

“If that’s what it takes,” Geralt growled. His fingers twitched.

“Your sword is pretty fast, but my gun is faster,” Cahir said confidently, still too close behind him. “I’m not about to let you just walk away after all this.”

Geralt turned to him and sighed, “Yeah, actually, you are.” He formed the Axii sign and left Cahir standing stunned in the empty hallway.

Probably, not the last he would see of the nosy cop, but Geralt was too tired to think about it much. He exited the building and got into his car. Roach was a slightly battered sedan, about ten years old. The first Roach had been a rusty brown bug, so the name made sense then. He just hadn’t bothered to think up a new name with all subsequent vehicles.

Geralt touched the back of his neck where his hair was soaked and sticky. Fortunately, his bulletproof vest protected his torso, including his back, but he was still losing plenty of blood.

It was a quick drive to the fringes of Uptown where Regis’ shop was located. Regis opened the door after four knocks, dressed in loose pants and dark robe, gray-streaked hair in disarray. “You didn’t text,” he said, ushering Geralt in.

“Didn’t have time,” Geralt said. “Idiot cop was hounding me.”

“Sit there,” Regis ordered, gesturing to the counter. His calm demeanor comforted Geralt as always. Nothing could go wrong with Regis around.

Geralt turned the chair around and sat with his back to the counter. He heard Regis filling a basin with water and setting it on the bar. The zipper of his first aid bag buzzed open. Steady hands lifted Geralt’s bloody hair and pinned it up with a clip. A wet cloth cleaned the back of his neck. The cool disinfecting ointment smeared over his wound and then a row of sticky thin bandages pulled the cut together. Regis covered them all with a larger bandage and dabbed clean traces of remaining blood.

“Let me wash your hair too,” he said softly.

“Yeah,” Geralt sighed, leaning back.

Regis carefully guided his head to the basin on the counter and unpinned the clip, rinsing his hair in the water. His fingers were gentle and soothing, combing through the matted mess of Geralt’s head. He squeezed the excess water into the basin and pinned the hair up again.

“What were you hunting? Ghouls?”

“Garkains,” Geralt said. “Fucking vampires. Couple of them drained a high school kid.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Regis murmured. He handed Geralt a freshly brewed Swallow to drink.

“It’s especially unfortunate that a dumbass cop had to interfere and force me to defend him.”

“Is this the same one that has been inconveniencing you of late? The same one that questioned you about being in the woodland park?”

“Yep,” Geralt said. “Calls himself Cahir something or other. Got a Nilfgaardian accent, so you know he’s trouble.”

“What course of action did you take?”

“Stunned him with Axii and left him to sweat. Probably no more blood-suckers there to eat him.”

“He knows you,” Regis reminded him. “He’ll return. You should develop a strategy to address his interest in your work.”

“Sure,” Geralt muttered. “Mind if I pass out for a little while?”

“Please. You shouldn’t be driving home in this condition. I’ll inform Milva of your circumstances.”

“Thanks, man,” Geralt said. The little apartment above the shop had a sofa bed in addition to the twin mattress Regis’s foundling used. She was gone for the night, probably at some dumb rock show, Geralt concluded. He slumped on the worn cushions and fell asleep almost immediately, only hovering toward consciousness when Regis tucked a pillow under the side of his head and draped a blanket over him.

The light switched off and the building was silent besides the occasional rumble of a car going by. Regis sighed and then there was nothing but the stillness of night.

Four Months Earlier…

On a blustery spring day, Geralt drove through downtown past the big sign raised on a hill at the center of the round-about proclaiming, “Welcome to Beauclair: City of Enchantment.” It was surrounded by a rainbow of flowers He liked it better than their old slogan “Beauclair: Where Fairytales Come True!” Roach motored through the streets with fountains and fruit trees and flower beds, past the antique shops, cafes, and wine boutiques, past the historical buildings and through the residential neighborhoods with houses built of brick and stone, whitewashed to reflect the brilliance of the sun.

On the outskirts of Uptown, he parked Roach and strode up to a little gray shop on the street below the big cemetery. The sun had faded the sign “Herbs and Remedies” to a pale shadow. Wind chimes tinkled above the door. Vines crawled up the stone exterior, spreading like river deltas. Inside, shelves lined narrow aisles, stuffed with packages and bottles and boxes. Potted plants filled the gaps between, sending their leaves toward the light from the long windows. In the back was a little bar with six seats. A hand-painted sign listed teas and infusions one could order. It was all clean and tidy, but very old. He sensed much care had been given over the years, dusting and polishing and arranging everything just so.

The girl sitting at the bar was the only incongruous element. She had pale blond hair cut choppy and asymmetrical against her sharp features. Her peasant skirt spilled over leather biker pants. A graphic tee and dirty converses completed the outfit. She looked up from a laptop plastered with stickers and squinted at Geralt. “Uncle, customer!” she squawked.

The proprietor emerged through a split curtain, holding a book and blinking owlishly. He looked to be in his late forties or early fifties with wings of gray hair at his temples and lines at the corners of his dark, assessing eyes.

“Hello, there. What can I help you find?” He tilted his head and studied Geralt. The white hair, scars, and yellow cat eyes usually provoked a reaction like that. The herbalist himself was about as average as could be, although with his fitted trousers and elegant waistcoat he did somewhat resemble “a gay bookseller time-traveling from the 1800s,” as Milva had put it after she first met him.

“Arenaria,” Geralt said. He hadn’t found any in the fields or woodlands for months. Online sellers seemed to expect an arm and a leg dipped in gold. He didn’t really think some hippy-dippy shop in Beauclair would carry it among their bogus homeopathic rosacea creams and ginger candies. But it was worth a try.

“Fresh or dried?” the shopkeeper asked.

Geralt blinked. “Uh, both if you have them.”

“Certainly, I’ll just bring some down from the garden.”

“Garden?” Geralt asked, trying to imagine where raised beds might be hiding on this narrow street.

“On the roof,” the other man said with a small smile. “I’m Emiel Regis, by the way. I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”

“I didn’t know this place existed,” Geralt admitted. “Have you been here long?”

“About ten years,” Regis replied. “But we just recently obtained an online presence, thanks to my young ward, Angoulême, whom you’ve already met.”

“Yo,” said the girl at the counter, raising a hand briefly without looking up from her screen.

“I’ll just dash up and pick that Arenaria for you,” Regis said. “Feel free to browse around.”

“Thanks,” Geralt said.

As Regis went for the stairs in the corner, Geralt turned to scan the labels of various jars. Balisse fruit, berbercane berries, dried ginatia petals, pickled buckweed… He could get everything he needed here. No more crouching in fields and pushing through brush to grab a few tattered leaves or wilted blossoms! No more diving in murky rivers to paw around for stinky, slimy hornwort!

“Hey old guy,” the girl, Angoulême, said. “What’s with your weird eyes? Are you wearing costume contacts?”

“Take a guess, kid,” Geralt replied, sick of the question by this point.

“Whatever, Gramps,” she muttered.

Regis emerged with a short bouquet of pretty, star-like white flowers. “Is this enough?”

“That’s perfect,” Geralt said, gleeful at the thought of all the potions he could brew as soon as he got home. “I’ll take these jars too.” He set an armful on the counter.

Regis rolled a wet paper towel and then plastic wrap around the stems of the flowers, then slid them carefully into a narrow paper bag. “If you put them in water when you get home, they should be good for about three days before they start to wilt.” He started ringing up the jars.

“Thanks, man,” Geralt said, pulling out his wallet. “This place is fantastic.”

“Excellent selections,” Regis said. He neatly wrapped each jar in newspaper and carefully arranged them in a paper bag. “We hope to see you back soon.” He took the bills that Geralt gave him. His fingernails were long and sleek. For a second, Geralt glanced down at the medallion on his chest, but it didn’t stir at all.

“I’ll definitely be back,” he said, taking his change and purchases.

And that was the start of a very productive relationship.

Geralt soon started stopping at the shop regularly to stock up and eventually brought Milva. She adored the place and they could spend hours there drinking tea and chatting with Regis and Angoulême, who called herself his niece. Geralt doubted they actually shared any genes; more likely Angoulême was a runaway who found shelter here, but it wasn’t really important. She looked to be in her late teens and called herself a hacker, although she hadn’t actually gotten access to any system beyond the public library. But she was quite a skilled pick-pocket and liked to show her latest acquisitions to Geralt when Regis wasn’t looking.

“How did you two meet?” Regis asked them one day as they sat at the counter.

Milva gave a crooked smile. “We ran into each other at a guns and knives show. I was looking at the guns and he was interested in the blades. He overheard me asking about a certain kind of bullets and we struck up a conversation.”

Before that day at the show, Geralt had never heard anyone seriously mention silver bullets before outside of witcher school. He’d known immediately that she wasn’t using guns to intimidate armed robbers.

“You hunting werewolves?” he asked bluntly, when she moved away from the stand.

Milva just sneered at him. She was tall and slim with a long brown braid trailing over her shoulder. She wore athletic leggings and a long, stylized tank top with running shoes, like a million other young women her age. But her posture and movements screamed ex-military, probably special forces.

“I’m serious,” he protested, ready to be not serious at a moment’s notice, if it went too far. “I hunt monsters too. The werewolves on the eastern side of Caroberta Woods haven’t attacked anyone in nearly a year, but there are plenty of nekkers causing trouble there right now.” It was a gamble, but he had to see how she’d react.

“Nekkers?” She said, and he saw that she was interested, not incredulous. “What are those?”

“Skinny bastards with triple chins who hunt in packs. They burrow and pop out of the ground like fucking gophers.”

Milva’s eyes widened. “Damn, I think I’ve seen them.”

It turned out that Milva’s specialty was werewolves, but she’d hunt anything she thought might be a threat. The problem was that no one had taught her which creatures were vulnerable to silver or which didn’t need to be hunted, even though they were weird-looking (Bart, the troll who lived by the sewage treatment plant, for one). She started helping Geralt out on jobs and he taught her what he knew.

Geralt didn’t like using guns, so it was great to have Milva at his back, picking off drowned dead with killer headshots or blasting rotfiends from a safe distance. She jokingly called him “Blade” and mocked him for preferring swords, but Geralt had tried a lot of different ways of killing monsters in his long life, and the skills he’d learned as a child still worked the best.

“A gun and knife show?” Regis looked from one to the other. “That’s an unusual place to meet. You both have an interest in hunting?”

“My dad was a big hunter and he taught me and my brothers,” Milva said. “We grew up in the country, of course. There wasn’t much else to do.”

“My uncle Vesemir taught me,” Geralt said simply.

“Not much game here in the city,” Regis said. “You must have to take long trips to find anything worthwhile.”

“Sometimes,” Milva said with a tight smile.

From the corner stool, Angoulême’s bright head popped up over the screen of her laptop. “Hunting is gross,” she said. “How can you kill those cute little deer?”

“More tea?” Regis asked smoothly. “You like the ginger-lemon, don’t you, Milva?”

“I’ve gotta get going and pick up my kid from school,” Milva said, sliding off her stool.

Regis’s eyebrows raised. “You have a child?”

He was looking between Geralt and Milva in a way that made Geralt uncomfortable. “Not me,” Geralt said, “she’s Milva’s kid. We’re not a couple, if that’s what you were thinking. We just work together.”

“Oh!” Regis said, clearly surprised. “What do you do?”

“Pest control,” Milva replied, eyes dancing as she pulled on her jacket.

“Natural pest control,” Geralt said gruffly. “That’s why we need all the herbs.” He thought he’d improved her lie, but Regi’s half-smile made him wonder if he’d actually fooled anyone.

“That’s a valuable service to offer,” Regis said. “The modern world relies on too many chemicals.”

“You say that like you don’t live in the modern world,” Angoulême complained. “Maybe you think you can cure the plague with a chicken tied to your head, but some of us are happy to live in an era with penicillin and antibacterial soap.”

“Certainly,” Regis agreed. “Our understanding of disease and infection has grown tremendously in the past century. But the sole reliance on current discoveries ignores all the lost wisdom of the past. I’m sure you both know that there is more to the world than the general public realizes. There are things only recounted now in stories twisted by time.”

Geralt watched him carefully, but Regis’s face was as open and unburdened as always. Only his black eyes were unreadable, deep and glittering. “Maybe,” Geralt breathed.

“Yeah, yeah,” Milva threw over her shoulder, as she went for the door.

Angoulême sighed. “You read too many of those moldy old books, Uncle. We need to sign you up for a streaming service or something.”

After Yen kicked him out for the second time, Geralt found himself living in Milva’s attic. Monster-hunting was not the most well-paid occupation these days, but they also had Milva’s rickety auto repair shop that she had inherited from a relative. Geralt didn’t know much about cars, but he could change oil and windshield wipers and run diagnostics, after Milva showed him how. Most of the time, he manned the office, answering the phone and taking people’s money. Milva did the dirty work.

Nights, they made spaghetti or chili or something simple and ate together while Milva’s seven-year-old daughter Eithné chattered about her day at school. Eithné was cute: blue-gray eyes, wavy red-gold hair, and a turned-up nose, but she asked too many questions and always wanted to play with his weapons. When Geralt got irritated, he reminded himself she was just a kid, let it go. Most of the time, she just made him laugh and smile. Sometimes, helping Eithné with her reading homework or preparing for a hunt with Milva, Geralt let himself pretend they were a kind of family and that he and Milva might start a romance and grow into a couple.

But Milva clearly didn’t see it that way. She had never shown any interest in Geralt, and seemed to think of him like an annoying older brother that she could make fun of. Plus, she’d seen him break up with Yen a twice already. “You’re just gonna go back to her,” she said. “You always do. I don’t think you two are ever gonna wise up and realize you’re a coupled of fucked-up magnets always slamming together then pushing each other away.”

She might be right, Geralt admitted to himself. Every time he fought with Yen, he told himself there was no possible way they could make up after the acid they had spewed at each other. After the third time they split up, he’d sworn to himself he’d never speak to her again. That didn’t stop him from constantly checking his phone day and night for a message from her. Too often, he woke aching for the brush of her long, dark curls against his bare skin, and her low, rich voice in his ears.

They kept the auto shop open on weekends so that they could take Monday-Tuesday off and hunt together while Eithné was in school. They scanned the local news stories for things like “mauling” or “unknown attacker” or “strange incident.” A few years ago, stories like this were rare, Geralt thought. It seemed to him that despite his best efforts, monsters were moving into Toussaint at a frightening rate. Not that it phased many of the residents. The law enforcement seemed determined to dismiss any evidence of monster activity as related to wild animals, or drugs, or gangs. At the entrance to the big forest park there were signs posted warning people to bring bear spray on their walks.

“Check this out,” Milva said, scrolling through text on a website. “Dismembered arm found in sewer grate. Police think the killer cut up a body to make it easier to transport and harder to identify.”

“Might be right,” Geralt said. “But it’s worth looking into. Let’s pay Bart a visit.”

The stopped at the butcher shop to grab a bucket of meat scraps then drove to the industrial section of town where the sewage treatment plant was located. Bart made his lair under a section of collapsed storage sheds near the culverts that fed storm water into the river.

Geralt knocked on a sheet of rusty corrugated metal that was the makeshift door of the home. “Bart, you in? It’s Geralt. Brought a snack for you.”

The thud of heavy steps sent vibrations through the ground and rattled the sunken walls of the shed slightly. Milva took a few steps back as lumpy gray hands gripped the edges of the door and pulled it to the side.

“Snacky?” rumbled the voice of the troll. His face looked small and under-formed in the bulk of his massive body. His legs were short and squat while his thick arms hung to the ground. His back thickened into a hump covered in hard gray scales that loomed over his head.

“Fresh meat,” Geralt told him. “We just wanted to know if you’ve seen anything weird around the sewers recently.”

Bart’s eyes bulged at the sight of the bucket. “Weird sewers?”

“A human arm was found near here. We know you wouldn’t hurt anyone, but maybe you’ve seen some drowners or rotfiends or even humans hanging around this area.”

“Smell tasty,” Bart grunted, looking at the bucket of meat. “Sewers no tasty.”

“Yeah,” Milva grumbled. “You get the meat if you can tell us something useful.”

“No see no,” Bart informed them. “No tasty smell sewer. Bad, bad smell.”

“More than usual?” Geralt said. “Bad smell is new?”

“New bad, bad smell,” Bart affirmed. “No tasty.”

“Thanks, Bart.” Geralt handed him the bucket. “Make sure you hide when the sun is out.”

Bart took the bucket in one immense hand and retreated back into the darkness of his lair.

“So…smelly sewers,” Milva summarized. “Glad we made that extra stop, huh?”

“It’s a lead,” Geralt said. “The rest of the body may be decomposing inside and stinking it up. Really, a troll’s eyesight isn’t great, so it was a long shot to even ask. But it’s sounding like the body was either dumped in a manhole or grate upstream, or the killing took place in the actual sewer.”

“Fuck, we’re definitely gonna be climbing through slime and dissolved dog shit, aren’t we?” Milva groaned. “Why can’t we stick to hunting in the woodlands?”

“If you wanna kill monsters, you gotta go where they are,” Geralt said. “Hope you brought a change of clothes and lots of wet wipes.”

Milva just glared at him.

They went back to the car and got their gear, including rain boots. Milva threw a plastic parka over her hunting jacket. Then they scrambled down to the river’s edge and sloshed over the entrance of the wide culvert where water trickled in a thin stream. A heavy grate covered the culvert and it was fastened with large screws.

“We can’t go in this way,” Geralt said.

“You seriously can’t magic your way in or something?” Milva asked.

“I told you, my signs are basic. No wind blast is going to dislodge that grate.” Geralt tilted his head up to examine the slime hanging off the edges of the grate, rubbed it between his fingers. “There’s another entrance in that warehouse over there. I just wanted to check the outflow here.”

“And?”

“This green mucus…it’s not a good sign. But we have to get closer to the source.”

They dodged out of view of a passing along the road above them and made their way to the low, empty warehouse with faded yellow paint. Weeds had sprouted along the edges of it and the windows were boarded up but one sheet of plywood had rotted away, leaving enough space for a Geralt-sized man to slip through. He landed in a crouch on the dusty cement. Milva slid through after him and he helped her down. The rifle on her back nearly hooked her there and she had to twist to get free. Her feet hit the ground with a slap of her rubber boots.

There was no light other than the beam streaming through the gap in the plywood. Geralt gestured to the gaping black hole in the center of the floor. The metal plate that had covered it was lying to the side. Whoever had removed it hadn’t replaced it.

Milva squinted to see it. “Geralt, before we go down, what makes slime?”

“Most creatures produce some amount of mucus, and so do algae.” Geralt went to the hole and peered into the darkness. He opened his pack and took out a Cat potion. “Drowner nests can be covered in slime. Endrega eggs also are coated in mucus.”

“But then there’s just regular old sewer goo,” Milva pointed out, taking a headband with a flashlight out of her bag.

“Yeah,” Geralt agreed. “Let’s hope that’s it.” He downed the vial of Cat and looked back into the hole. “No rungs to climb, but it’s not a long drop, if I remember right.”

He jumped and grabbed the edge of the hole, halting the momentum of his body. Beneath his swinging feet he saw the gleam of shallow water over concrete. He let go and fell with a splash, bending his knees to absorb the impact. The stench enveloped him.

The beam of Milva’s headlamp blinded him momentarily. “You all right?” she said.

“It’s not far,” he said. “I’ll catch you.”

“No thanks.” She mirrored his leap-and-dangle move, dropping to the shallows beside him. “Holy Hemmelfart, this place reeks.”

Geralt sniffed. “It’s coming from this direction.”

“Well, duh. It’s not coming from the river.”

“Okay, that’s enough from you,” Geralt grumbled.

Milva unsnapped the latch on her hip holster where her handgun rested. “You find drowners and rotfiends on your previous trips here?”

“I used this entrance once, and that was to clear out a rotfiend nest,” Geralt said. “They should all be gone.”

“Okay, let’s find this body,” Milva said, striding upstream.

They only came to two intersections and it wasn’t hard to follow the smell in the right direction. Geralt examined the clusters of grayish-green slime lining the walls along the way. The water thickened and darkened as they progressed and the clammy air of the tunnels smothered them with the smell of filth.

When they turned the corner and saw the tunnel open into a wide room with a deeper pool, Geralt put a hand on Milva’s arm. A sewage pipe running along the wall on the other side of the room was cracked and leaking a thin stream of brownish liquid into the pool. The layer of slime lining the walls of the chamber was a good six inches thick in some places.

Geralt’s medallion was shuddering wildly on his chest. “We’re not going to find any bodies,” he said.

“What is it?” Milva said, voice echoing.

A ripple ran through the water.

“Stay here on the ledge,” Geralt ordered. “You can shoot from here. If it looks like the tentacles can reach you, move back fast. This thing doesn’t play around.”

“Tentacles?” Milva hissed. “I did not sign up for this.”

Geralt unsheathed his silver. “Target the tentacles and I’ll go for the head when it comes up.”

“Fuck…” Milva pulled her handgun out of its holster and flipped off the safety.

Geralt unhooked a Samum bomb from his belt, pulled out the detonation pin and tossed it into the center of the pool. It sank with a small splash and the water around it swirled and roiled. Seconds later, a fountain of filthy liquid rose and sprayed in every direction as the bomb exploded. Slimy bits of monster flesh splattered Geralt and Milva.

Long, thick tentacles arced out of the water, coiling and lashing at random. Then the bulbous, fishy head of the zeugl emerged, roughly the size of a jet ski. Its huge vortex of a mouth gaped open to show overlapping teeth as long as hunting knives.

Milva muttered another curse and raised her gun, blasting the nearest tentacles with silver bullets. Geralt ran along the slippery ledge until he reached the pool. He leapt in. It was deeper than he had expected, almost up to his waist. The thick water slowed his movement and he found himself twisting and ducking to avoid the grasp of tentacles. Milva’s gunfire split the creature’s attention so that Geralt could push in close and slash at the side of its head. His blade scraped over hard bones and cartilage. The head sank beneath the murk again leaving Geralt to stab down at it. The zeugl writhed and threw him back into a mass of coiling tentacles. Geralt struggled to free his sword arm, thrashing and kicking with both feet against the squeeze of the zeugl’s many limbs.

When his head broke water, the louder crack of bullets told him Milva had switched to her rifle. The tentacle around his shoulder lost a thick chunk of flesh to her bullet, and it released him. The crash of water to his left followed by a gurgling roar of pain told him the head was up again. Geralt pushed to his feet and launched himself toward the sound. Fat, bloody tentacles tried to enfold him again but he hacked and slapped them aside. The monster’s head was turned toward Milva and Geralt realized the shooting had stopped. But he couldn’t look back. He thrust his sword down hard. The silver clanged off several long teeth but he threw all his weight on it and jammed it deep in the zeugl’s throat.

When the zeugl threw him off again, the sword remained firmly lodged inside its maw. Gradually, the motions of the tentacles slowed and Geralt could approach it again. He ripped his sword free, releasing a gush of dark blood. He waded back through the muck to the ledge where Milva waited, crouched and holding her arm.

Milva stared up at him, face tight with pain. Her hand was already starting to swell. “I think it broke something in my arm,” she hissed through gritted teeth.

“Stay still,” Geralt ordered, gingerly pulling up her sleeve. The darkened skin where the tentacle had bashed into her forearm stood out in stark relief. He realized then that his left hand was bleeding where the zeugl’s teeth had cut through his glove. He wrapped it up quickly, then used a brace and bandages to create a sling for Milva. But he knew she needed a doctor. He patched her up as best he could, cursing himself for bringing her on a zeugl hunt.

“Geralt, I’ve had broken bones before. I’ll be fine,” she assured him

“I’m taking you to the hospital,” he said. “You need to get an x-ray and probably a cast.”

“And you probably need a round of antibiotics for that cut soaked in raw sewage,” she said with a snicker. “You know, somehow I thought that my first encounter with a tentacle monster would be sexier.”

They had a long, painful walk back through the sewers and a brief wash in the river. It was plenty of time to think up an explanation for her injury and their filthy state, but the best they could come up with was “tripped and fell while hiking by the swamp.”

Their explanation hadn’t really convinced the urgent care doctor who looked at Geralt as though he were a dirty wife-beater. And it certainly didn’t convince Regis when he noticed the cast on her arm days later, after they stopped at the shop for hot beverages. “Hiking in that terrain?” he said with a tinge of disbelief. “You truly are dedicated outdoorsmen.”

Milva shifted uncomfortably on her bar stool. Geralt stared at his hellebore tea.

Regis said, “I have a decoction that will help with the pain and accelerate healing, if you like.”

“What’s it got in it?” Milva asked cautiously.

“A mixture of herbs for pain relief and tissue regeneration. Trust me when I say it will make a difference.”

“Uncle knows what he’s talking about,” Angoulême piped up. “He gave me a potion for my period cramps that works like magic.”

“Um, okay,” Milva said. “I’ll give it a try. How much is it?”

Regis smiled. “For my most frequent customers, a free remedy is a small gift. And I’ll throw in a salve for the wound on your hand, Geralt.”

“We aren’t looking for charity,” Geralt protested. “You hardly have any customers at all. Let me pay for the medicine.”

“My shop is not my primary source of income,” Regis explained. “Over the years, I have made some moderately good investments that provide everything I need. The shop is merely an outlet for my hobbies and a chance to share my resources and abilities with the wider world. So, please, my friends, let me share.”

His hand right hand stretched out on the counter near Geralt’s and his left to Milva, a gesture of intimacy that surprised and pleased Geralt.

“All right,” Milva said. “If you’re secretly a billionaire, just giving stuff away for free…”

Regis laughed, covering his mouth. “Not quite, but I do well enough.”

“He bought me a new laptop!” Angoulême chirped, looking up from her computer. “And he pays for my clothes too. I just shop at the thrift store because I don’t wanna look like all the other clones out there.”

“Well, you certainly succeeded there,” Milva said.

The decoction really did work, Milva reported. She got her cast off in record time, which was a boon for Geralt. He’d been doing the car maintenance and repairs under her supervision and, between her impatience and Geralt’s frustration, their tempers flared frequently.

On his lunch break, a text message from an unfamiliar number popped up on Geralt’s phone: Hello, this is Emiel Regis from the shop. I just wanted to check and see how Milva is healing. I got your phone number from the order form you did for fool’s parsley extract. I hope this isn’t too presumptuous.

Grinning, Geralt tapped out a response. He had to choose his friends carefully, as a hazard of his lifestyle. But Regis was the kind of person who made you feel like you could tell him anything. Geralt liked thinking that nothing would perturb Regis. If you told him you’d just fought a sewage-loving tentacle monster in the sewers with silver and bombs, he’d probably just nod and ask you how it went.

Well, that was the fantasy anyway. Geralt still had to hold his cards close to his chest. He had enough problems already without blabbing the secrets of his life to the nice man in the quaint shop. Regis might be kind and understanding, but he was still just a regular guy. Geralt and Milva had already chosen to work on the darker side of Toussaint. There was no point dragging Regis into that dangerous world.

Chapter Text

When the diplomatic summit took place in Beauclair, Geralt hardly noticed it except for the thrice-damned traffic. They closed off the streets around the city hall building for security which meant an extra half hour crawling side streets from the highway exit to Milva’s weathered gray house next to the auto shop. Plus there always seemed to be a dignitary’s car with a police escort getting in his way.

He didn’t even know what all the fuss was about until he saw it on TV. He and Milva usually alternated days watching the evening news, so that one could help Eithné with her homework and the other could take notes on potential monster attacks. It was Geralt’s turn, which meant enduring segments about protest marches and wine tastings and whatever idiot with a top forty song was performing at the amphitheater.

The segment about the diplomatic summit came on with a clip featuring the faces of six international leaders, including President Foltest of Temeria, looking bored; Henselt of Kaedwan, shifting heavily in the too-small chair; Saskia of Upper Aedirn, staring fiercely and directly into the cameras; Emhyr of Nilfgaard, irritated and impatient as always; Radovid of Redania wearing dark circles under his puffy eyes; and Governor Anna Henrietta of Toussaint, poised and imperious in her designer dress. For a second, Geralt almost thought he recognized the red-headed lady sitting behind Foltest, but he couldn’t place her. Some aide or consultant.

Geralt was about to zone out completely when the camera pivoted and his gaze caught the woman at the shoulder of Prime Minister Emyhr var Emreis of Nilfgaard. Yen wore a perfect-fitting black suit with a crisp white blouse folded out over her lapels. Her dark curls were pinned up in a neat twist. Her lipstick was red as blood and her violet eyes glowed wide and luminous. The star at her throat winked in the flashes of cameras.

A reporter was saying, “Prime Minister, your recent annexing of territories on your borders has led to widespread condemnation, with some dubbing you ‘Emperor Emhyr.’ How do you respond to criticism that you are aggressively invading other nations?”

“Everything we’ve done is lawful,” Emhyr declared in a cool, even voice. “No treaties were broken and there were no civilian deaths. Those territories rightfully belong under our umbrella. I am simply protecting the people from unscrupulous dictators and bringing them into the safe and prosperous fold of Nilfgaard. This is progress.”

Geralt frowned. Yen working for Nilfgaard? She had never shown any particular scruples about choosing her clients, but after losing several friends and colleagues at the battle of Sodden Hill, he’d thought Nilfgaard would not have left the best impression on her. The more he stared at her, the angrier he got. As the reporters moved on to another target, she leaned in close to Emhyr, speaking in his ear. Geralt scrunched up the note paper in his hands.

He turned off the TV and stomped into the kitchen where Milva leaned over a math practice sheet with Eithné. She looked up, questioning.

“I’m going out. Don’t wait up for me.”

“Kay,” Milva said, drawing out the syllable. “Is this business or…”

“Just need a drink,” Geralt growled. He grabbed his wallet and keys, tucked a silver knife into the hidden holster under his sleeve, and strode out into the night. Darkness covered the bright white of the buildings, softened the dramatic reds of awnings and the golden paint on windows. The orange poppies clustering the edges of the sidewalks had closed up for the night, sleeping in tight buds.

Unfortunately, his favorite neighborhood bar—a dive with quiet customers and a cheap beer—wasn’t open on Mondays so he walked towards downtown, edging into the party district. College kids clustered in groups like tittering and squawking birds side-eyeing each other, practicing their mating rituals. At least, on a weekday, the number of tipsy twenty-somethings was at a minimum. Street lamps hummed around him under the roar of passing cars. Geralt took in a deep breath of the cool night and tried to think of anything besides Yen.

As he rounded a corner along the backside of a Koviran restaurant, loud voices disrupted his solitude. A trio of young fools were crowding into the space of a skinny young man in the most ridiculous outfit Geralt had ever seen: a purple satiny suit jacket over black skinny jeans. Pointlessly pointy shoes and a glittering fedora with a white feather in it completed the ensemble. Geralt had to stop and take it all in before he could even register what was happening.

“You’ll be lucky if I don’t kill you right now,” the foremost youth was blustering. “I could snap your little chicken neck like a pencil, asshole.” He looked like a skinny chicken himself, but his wiry frame vibrated with a tense, jittery aggression.

“Gentlemen, as I said before, it’s all a huge misunderstanding,” the purple peacock said in a soothing voice. “I was simply giving vocal lessons to the lady in question, nothing more.”

“You had your hand up her shirt,” one of the other boys spoke up. He had an uneven crew cut and bad skin.

“I was simply checking the capacity of the vocal cavity. We use vibrations to guide our pupils’ progress.”

“Bullshit,” the skinny man said. “She was moaning and had her eyes closed.”

“The basic warm-up posture,” the would-be teacher explained, hands trembling.

The hooligans closed in on him. The closest one shoved him into the wall. “You’re full of shit!”

Geralt sighed and stepped into view clearing his throat loudly. “Excuse me, fellas. Sorry to break up the fun. I think you’ve scared him enough. Lesson learned. Let’s all go get drinks.”

He scanned their furious faces as they turned to look at him. “Night’s young. Let’s not start it off with blood and broken bones.”

The three bruisers did not look convinced. “Fuck off,” the skinny one said. “This ain’t your business, old man.”

“I am well aware of that,” Geralt said dryly. “And I’m sure I’ll regret not going my own way, but I’ve got this code, see? And it says I’ve got to rescue people, even when they probably deserve getting pummeled.”

The purple peacock hugged himself, eyes pleading. The thugs surveying Geralt were not impressed.

“I don’t like fighting old people,” the formerly silent one said.

“He’s not that old,” the spotty one declared. Geralt felt a modicum of gratitude toward him.

The skinny rooster said, “I’ll fuck him up all my own, and then—” he turned toward the peacock, “I’ll smash the pervert.”

Geralt rolled his shoulders and his neck to warm up. “All right. One at a time, or all at once? You decide, fellas. Not that it will make a difference.”

The quiet one actually looked a little nervous. The rooster was practically hopping, like a wannabe boxer. He rushed at Geralt, throwing a direct punch to the face. Geralt merely shifted the minimal amount he needed to avoid the blow and watched hairy knuckles go sailing past his nose. The rooster’s eyes were blurry and dilated wide. He’d probably already snorted a hefty bump to pregame the night out.

He lunged again and jerkily aimed his other fist at Geralt’s gut. When Geralt dodged it easily once more, it should have been a sign. But the kid completely lost it, started throwing wild haymakers. Geralt just sighed and kicked the rooster’s legs out from under him, bringing him to his knees, then smashed his knee into the boy’s chin, dropping him flat on the pavement.

To his right, he heard the sound of sneakers slapping cement. Pizza-face tried to slam into his side, but Geralt twisted and used the other’s momentum to flip him sideways. He hit the ground with an impressive thump, but there was no crack of bones, so that was something to be thankful for. Geralt kicked him once in the stomach to make sure he stayed down, but tempered the force. No sense in rupturing a spleen right away.

The third one stayed at a distance, hovering between attacking and fleeing. He knew if he ran, his boys would never forgive him. He knew if he fought, he’d get hurt real bad. Geralt felt almost sorry for him

“You can always get new friends,” Geralt suggested.

The kid stood there shaking for a minute more before he turned and high-tailed it down the street.

The victim by the wall sagged with a long exhale of relief. Geralt stepped over the fallen attackers, one completely passed out (or playing at it, anyway), the other groaning and curled protectively in a ball.

“Time to go,” Geralt said to the peacock.

The other man nodded shakily and followed Geralt as he walked away from the scene. “Thank you, sir. I could have dealt with the ruffians myself, of course, but I do appreciate your assistance. The name’s Dandelion, although I’m sure you’ve already recognized me.”

Geralt squinted at his face in the dim light. He had a neatly-trimmed goatee and his blue eyes were ringed with traces of eyeliner. “Dandelion, like the weed? Are you one of the diplomats in town? I don’t really keep up on politics.”

“No,” the peacock said with a laugh. “Dandelion. The singer.” He seemed to expect a sign of comprehension. “’Love is an Endless Dream.’ ‘Passion at Dawn.’ ‘My Baby Makes Me Crazy.’ You know?”

Geralt shook his head. “Sorry, I don’t really listen to the radio.”

Dandelion deflated a little. “Well, if you did, you’d certainly have heard my work. Or you might have seen the commercial I did for Fleet’s Car Insurance. Or my appearances on the daytime drama As the Spheres Turn. Or the various award shows I’ve attended. Surely you’ve seen my book One Hundred Years of Poetry. It was a featured title in the Novigrad Times Book Review!”

“Congrats,” Geralt said. He figured they were a safe distance from the thugs by now. “Well, I guess you’ll be getting on with your night. Try not to grope any more girlfriends of aggro punks.”

“Oh, of course,” Dandelion said. “But you must let me treat you to a drink.”

“Uh, sure.” Geralt didn’t have a lot of extra cash. Buying a beer for him was the least the blowhard could do.

Instead of heading into one of the nearby bars, Dandelion dragged him several blocks to The Silver, one of the more popular clubs in town. The shiny chrome exterior always put Geralt off. It wasn’t his kind of place. But he had to admit that the hoard of pretty people going into it was a sure draw.

Dandelion strode to the front of the line, said something to the smug bouncer, and whisked them both inside. Thrumming bass and synth rolled over them. The front bar was dimly lit by spikey pale green lights hanging from the ceiling like radioactive prickly pears. Geralt took a seat next to Dandelion on a sleek black bar stool. If he looked over his shoulder, he could see the dance floor far below, with clusters of people shaking their bodies or swaying awkwardly. Geralt rubbed his palms self-consciously on his worn jeans and looked down at his generic cotton t-shirt under his scuffed leather jacket. No visible stains or bleach spots, at least.

Dandelion ordered them a bottle of Fiorano before Geralt could say anything. He had been planning to drown his troubles in Temerian Rye or the cheapest vodka they had. But the Fiorano, when it arrived was smooth and sweet on his tongue, no acidity at all. Dandelion kept up a steady stream of chatter about his tour schedule, his next recording project, and descriptions of all the famous women he had met. Geralt didn’t recognize most of the names he dropped, but it distracted him from his own dark thoughts, so he let the other man ramble on.

However, as they emptied the tall bottle between them and started on a second one, Dandelion seemed to grow more and more despondent. He looked at the sinking level of wine in his glass and sighed deeply, mouth drooping. Geralt was already sailing on the golden cloud of Fiorano, so Dandelion’s sudden silence unnerved him.

“We can order something else,” he said. “You want to get some Redanian Herbal?” He was uncharacteristically generous when buzzed.

“No, it’s useless,” Dandelion groaned. “Nothing works for me anymore.”

“Nothing works? What are you talking about?”

Dandelion circled the base of the glass with his index finger. “I can drink and drink until my liver is pickled, but I feel nothing. No warm glow. No wild freedom. No slow torpor. I will sit here completely sober all night and wake up the next day with a head-splitting hangover.”

Geralt’s ears pricked up. “Has this been a gradual thing or did it happen all at once? You sure you didn’t just build up a tolerance?”

“My dear sir,” Dandelion sputtered. “I assure you that I am not customarily a heavy drinker. My current predicament is quite recent. I noticed it sometime within the last week. I’ve tried all sorts of different liquors and nothing has any effect on me, except to eventually upset my stomach and hammer my skull.”

“Interesting,” Geralt said softly. “Have you made any new enemies in the past week? Pissed anyone off?”

“Well,” Dandelion avoided his gaze. “I may have ruffled a few feathers. As you’ve witnessed firsthand, a famous, beloved bachelor such as myself has to deal with various misunderstandings, jealousies, and inconvenient attachments.”

“This would probably be an incident related to drinking,” Geralt said with a wry smile. “Did you chug somebody’s expensive bottle of rare wine or leave someone else to pay the tab on your last binge?”

Dandelion bristled. “Certainly not.” He glared at the shelf of liquor bottles behind the bar for a long moment. Then, “Well, perhaps…there was something. A certain lady whom I had romanced saw photos of me with another woman—totally innocent and in good fun, of course. But she jumped to the wrong conclusion. I assured her it was only that the alcohol had contributed to a more relaxed and freer atmosphere where we could be comfortable with our bodies. I’m afraid she took it the wrong way.”

“Possibly,” Geralt said. “Do you remember exactly what she said? The words may have real power.”

Dandelion shook his head. “She just screamed something about me being a man-whore and hung up the phone.”

“So, it sounds like you’re actually pretty lucky,” Geralt said.

“In what way?” Dandelion demanded with a scowl.

“Well, most women who’ve been cheated on will try to curse a guy’s dick. Make him impotent, diseased, or make it fall off. This one just cursed your drinking ability.”

Dandelion gaped at him. “They can really do that?”

“Sure, if they have the right tools or enough powerful emotion to activate a source of magic.” The Fiorano coursing through him dampened his worries about saying too much. “Curses don’t always turn out the way the caster intended, though. They can really backfire. I’m guessing your girlfriend either didn’t have adequate power to curse you as badly as she wanted or she just didn’t care enough to really hit you hard.”

Dandelion stared at him with wide eyes.

Geralt tipped his head in a half-shrug. “Either way, this might actually be good for you. It’s not like you need to drink. She’s helping you start a healthy lifestyle, in a way.”

“Says the man who’s currently getting drunk,” Dandelion grumbled. “If you were in my place, Geralt, forcibly denied the chance to ever experience the sweet haze of intoxication again, would you be so eager to embrace a healthy lifestyle?”

Geralt shuddered at the thought. “Good point.” He downed the rest of the Fiorano bottle, since it was clear it was wasted on Dandelion. “Well, if you want to break the curse, there are a few things we can try. Have you received any unusual gifts since then? Perhaps a piece of jewelry or an item of clothing? Maybe someone sent you a bottle of unusual liquor that you drank?”

“Nothing from her,” Dandelion said. “My fans are always giving me gifts, but usually just handmade art or poetry or knitted hats. Nothing I have on me right now.”

“Okay, then it’s probably a spoken spell, so a cleansing ritual should do the trick. Not sure I have any celandine, though.”

“Any what?”

A woman in a sparkly tank top approached the bar and gave Geralt a long, smoldering look as she waited for her drink, but he just didn’t have the time.

“Hang on,” he told Dandelion, pulling his phone out his pocket with some effort. “I got a guy.” It was just easier to call.

The phone rang several times, then Regis answered in a low, rough voice. “Yes?”

“Regis!” Geralt said. “I gotta perform a cleansing ritual and I’m all out of celandine. Can you help me out?”

There was a shuffling sound on the other end. “Is this an emergency? Are you in trouble?”

“Nah,” Geralt said. “Just got a buddy here with a drinking problem.” It occurred to him that he should be a bit more discrete. “Celandine is good for all kinds of cleansing, right?”

“It can be used for healing…” Regis said. “If you’re doing a cleansing ritual, you’ll also need water essence, sulfur, and honeysuckle. Do you have those too?”

“Wait, how do you know about cleansing rituals?” Geralt asked, head swirling.

“I read about them,” Regis said evenly. “Geralt, are you drunk?”

“Maybe a little,” Geralt acknowledged. “Don’t worry, we’ll get a taxi there. My friend is loaded.”

“All right,” Regis said slowly.

Geralt had a sudden urge to tell Regis his husky just-woken-up voice was kind of sexy. But he wasn’t that drunk.

The taxi ride to Regis’ shop passed in a blur. The cab smelled like old french fries and pine needles. Dandelion was asking Geralt all kinds of questions that the witcher was struggling to answer. He’d already talked too much, he knew. So he just mumbled indirect responses until they got to their stop.

The shop was dark except for a single lamp in the window. Regis opened the door as they approached wearing his night robe over loose pants. His feet were bare and pale. “Hello,” he said to Dandelion. “I’m Emiel Regis.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Dandelion said. “I’m Dandelion, the actor, singer, and poet.” He waited for a moment for recognition.

“What a beautiful name,” Regis said, shaking his hand. “Geralt mentioned that you might have a drinking problem, although I think he was describing himself. You seem quite sober.”

“Alas, that is the trouble,” Dandelion said mournfully.

They explained the issue to Regis as they set up for the ritual. Of course, all of Geralt’s supplies were at home, so Regis provided the necessary elements. He brewed the herbs, alcohol, and water essence in a pot on his little stovetop. He even helped Geralt draw the lines of sulfur around Dandelion.

Geralt handed Dandelion a steaming mug filled with the brew. “Inhale this steam while I say the words. Don’t exhale until they are all done.”

Dandelion made a face. “If the tabloids get a load of this, I’ll never survive it.”

“Shut up. And don’t exhale,” Geralt ordered.

Dandelion dutifully took a deep breath and held it. But halfway through the invocation, reciting the words of power Geralt forgot the next line. Something about the purifying sunlight? Dandelion widened his eyes and gave Geralt a desperate look. Thankfully, Regis grabbed a book from the counter and guided Geralt through the end.

Dandelion let out his breath in a whoosh and gasped for air. Geralt patted him on the back. “Feel any different?”

“Not really,” Dandelion hissed, still gulping up oxygen.

“Regis, you got any hooch?”

Regis smiled that slow, closed-mouth smile. “I may have a little something.”

When he brought out a dark bottle and uncorked it, Geralt whistled at the scent. “Mandrake? Is that even safe to drink?”

“It’s been carefully distilled with the correct herbs in the correct portions,” Regis said. “It’s quite powerful, but I can assure you that it’s not dangerous, as long as you don’t overindulge.” He poured a little cup for Dandelion and then looked at Geralt. “I don’t think you need anything else tonight.”

Geralt pouted. “Come on, you can’t just flash top-shelf liquor like that in front of my face and expect me to ignore it. Just tip me out a little bit.”

“All right, a little,” Regis said. He poured a smaller cup for Geralt.

“None for you?” Dandelion said, picking up his cup.

“One of us should keep a clear head,” Regis murmured. He corked the bottle.

Dandelion clinked his cup with Geralt’s. “Here’s to you, gentlemen.” He took a deep drink and spluttered loudly. “Damn, that’s strong!” He blinked his watering eyes.

Geralt took a swig of his and felt it burn like a wildfire from his throat to his gut before it smoked a warm cloud into his head.

“Oh, yes,” Dandelion breathed, leaning against the wall. “The curse is definitely lifted—at least for this particular beverage.” He closed his eyes with a dreamy smile. “I can’t thank you two enough.”

“It’s nothing,” Regis said. “Geralt, may I speak to you in the kitchen?”

Geralt gulped down the last of his mandrake cordial and followed Regis behind the bar into the little kitchenette. It was very dark, and even with his enhanced eyesight, he had trouble reading Regis’ face.

“So…you break curses,” Regis said quietly.

Geralt tensed. “Sometimes,” he said.

“And you kill monsters.” Regis’ voice stayed level and unchanged.

Heavy air filled the small space. Geralt could hear Dandelion singing something in a high voice.

Regis breathed out. “Geralt, I knew you were a witcher from the moment you walked it. Feline eyes, extensive scars, an interest in herbs commonly used in elixirs and blade oils… The only thing missing was two swords on your back.”

“I keep them in the car trunk,” Geralt said gruffly. “If I was so damn obvious, why didn’t you say anything?”

Regis sighed. “I was hoping you’d tell me yourself, eventually. But you kept making up stories. I thought I’d spare you the trouble.”

Geralt looked down at the floor. “Most people wouldn’t understand.”

A moment of silence. “I’m not like most people. You know that,” Regis said, curling his hands against the counter behind him.

“You’re not,” Geralt agreed, wondering. “You’re not like anyone else.” His head was tumbling with thoughts, his limbs were heavy and warm.

Regis watched him for a long time. He seemed on the verge of speaking, but didn’t.

A shout from the main room split through them. “Regis! Geralt, my man! I’m writing a song. What rhymes with ‘lips of silk?’”

Regis slipped past Geralt and out to Dandelion. “Glass of milk?” he offered. “Shall I call you another cab, Mr. Dandelion? I’m sure Geralt can get you home safely.”

“Yes, I need to get this down on paper as soon as possible. You have no idea how demanding my producer is. Always new songs, new songs, more new songs! He doesn’t appreciate quality at all.” Dandelion stared at his phone, thumbs tapping out words in a note app.

“We’ll talk more later,” Regis said quietly to Geralt, who had emerged to stand beside him. “I will keep your secret, but you must allow me to help you. I have resources you can use. I don’t want to see you hurt or killed because of your pride.”

Geralt wanted to say something like, “I’ve been doing fine for nearly a century,” but his scars probably would betray him. “It’s just me and Milva,” he said, “and she’s not a witcher. She wants to hunt, but I’d never forgive myself if her little girl lost her mom because I took her out to track a leshen.” He looked directly into Regis’ imploring eyes. “I guess we could use a little help.”

A clatter of footsteps on the stairs startled them. Angoulême popped into the room in a big t-shirt and basketball shorts, glaring blearily at them all. She froze and stared. “Is that…Dandelion?”

“Finally, a true fan!” Dandelion crowed, head popping up from his screen. “Anything you’d like me to sign, my beauty?”

“Uh, not exactly a fan,” Angoulême said slowly. “I’ve seen your face in memes...”

“Tonight, it is sufficient that someone is aware of my existence,” Dandelion declared, going back to his phone. “I will be sure to send you all some tickets to my show tomorrow, so you will never forget me.”

Angoulême rubbed a hand over her eyes. “What are you guys doing here in the middle of the night?” She demanded.

Regis started to conjure an explanation, but Geralt interrupted him. “Breaking a curse,” he said firmly. “We had to perform a cleansing ritual on Dandelion so he could drink alcohol again.”

Angoulême looked back and forth between him and Regis for a long moment. “Cool,” she said, at last. “You share Uncle’s weird New Age hobbies.” She turned back to the stairs. “Just don’t summon any demons or shit like that.”

“Gotcha,” Geralt responded with chuckle.

As she returned upstairs, Regis tilted his head up, regarding him. “That was very brave. I’m impressed by your emerging trust in us.”

Geralt shrugged one shoulder. “She seems cool. If I can tell a random guy at a bar about curses, I guess I can confide in you two as well.” He moved to Dandelion and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Ready to get back to your hotel, Mr. Bigshot?”

Dandelion laughed. “The night has barely begun! There are scores of young ladies roaming the streets looking for such fine men as ourselves. It’s no time for sleep!”

“I think you’ve overestimated the nightlife of Beauclair on a Monday,” Geralt said. “Besides, don’t you have a show tomorrow?”

Dandelion rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “Suddenly you turn into the model of respectability. Very well, call me a cab and I shall be on my way.” He stood, flourishing with the hand that held his phone. “But don’t think I will forget about the assistance you have provided, or the fine quality of that liquor. I shall return!”

As he shuffled to the door, Geralt exchanged a look with Regis. There’s no way he’ll remember this place. We’re never going to see him again.

Chapter Text

Geralt awoke in Milva’s attic with a head full of fuzzy, dry cotton. A low-grade headache throbbed between his temples. He reached over, checked his phone, and saw a text from a contact he’d named “pervy peacock.” Something about concert tickets. He crawled out of bed and climbed down the ladder to the bathroom on the first floor. After a long piss, a shower and shave, he was feeling a little better.

In the kitchen, Eithné was eating a bowl of cereal. “You’re awake!” A drop of milk rolled down her chin.

Milva turned from her position by the coffeemaker, raising an eyebrow. “You’re on oil changes and parts orders for the rest of the week, Mr. Party Animal.”

“Sure,” Geralt said levelly. “Are you mad? I didn’t even drink that much. Just got tangled up in someone else’s problems. You know this singer, Dandelion?”

“He’s got some hits,” Milva said. “Cheesy love songs. Not really my thing.”

“Ok, never mind then.”

“Never mind what?”

“He sent some links to tickets to his show tonight at the amphitheater. But I don’t want to go either.” Geralt grabbed a bowl out of the cupboard and the bag of granola. “Maybe I’ll tell him I’ll meet him for drinks later.”

“Going drinking again?” Milva said, raising her voice.

“Why not?” Geralt said, baffled. “Tomorrow’s Wednesday, no hunts. Don’t have to open the shop until ten.”

“What about cleaning the shop, weeding the flower beds, power-washing the parking lot? These are all things you keep saying you’re gonna do. I have enough on my hands working every day with my head under car hoods, making meals, and getting my kid ready for school. Not to mention you’ve hogged all the hunts for the past six weeks while I stay home.”

“You’ve been recovering,” Geralt said. “You want to go out today?”

“Yes, Geralt,” Milva said between clenched teeth. “I want to shoot my guns at nasty things and eat a burger for lunch and go out tonight to a loud, dumb concert while you stay home and wash dishes and look after Eithné. Then maybe you can go drinking.”

“Okay…” Geralt said. “Sounds good to me.”

“What are you hunting, Mommy?” Eithné asked, watching them both with wide blue eyes.

“Squirrels, sweetie,” Milva said. “But only the mean ones.”

After Eithné was on the bus to school, Milva and Geralt packed up Roach and drove out of the city. They could usually find necrophages on the Sansretour Marsh just outside of Flovive. Milva was pretty good at tracking, even without a witcher’s heightened senses. She followed the trail of prints from mud, over rocks, and through streams. Geralt listened for the garbled grunts that drowners and mucknixers usually made. He only heard the rattle of water over stone and rustle of leaves. Bits of trash had gathered in shallow rocky areas downstream: potato chip bags, sports drink bottles, and a lone sneaker. When he finally picked up the low growls of the scurvers, they had left all traces of civilization behind.

The riverbank had caved away, creating a small muddy area where earth covered river rocks. Two scurvers were crouched over the body of a large yellow dog, their spines shaking as they tore at the flesh. Geralt touched Milva’s shoulder and motioned to the shadow of the bank where another scurver was squatting in the mud, blinking lazily. At least three.

They moved to the top of the bank, a perfect position for a marksman. Milva carefully unstrapped the rifle on her back, raised it to her shoulder and flipped off the safety. Geralt readied his silver sword and cast Quen quickly. He nodded to Milva and she squeezed the trigger four times in rapid succession. One of the feeding scurvers fell immediately, shaking and spraying sharp spines into its companion who also got a bullet in the back. It stumbled and howled with pain, turning a furious, prickly face to its attackers. Milva shot it twice in the head and it sent it falling back, shaking momentarily before it too exploded in a shower of spikes.

By this time, the drowsing scurver was wide awake, on its feet, and running around the bend for cover. Always one a little smarter than the others, Geralt mused, sliding down the bank to the riverside. He stopped in a crouch in the mud, listening for movement, growls. The water chattered and the breeze hissed and Milva breathed fast. Geralt sprang to his feet and ran around the riverbend, splashing through the shallow water. He spotted the runaway scurver immediately, backing into the side of the bank slowly. Then a fourth scurver barreled into him from above.

Basic trap, Geralt thought as his Quen shield burst, sending the scurver falling back. He managed to get a few hits with silver before the other scurver charged at his back and he had to roll away. They approached at opposite sides, looking for an opening, knowing he couldn’t get them both at once. Geralt threw a blast of Igni at the one on his left then lunged at the one on his right with fast cuts. As the scurver backed away under his onslaught, Geralt strained his senses for the one behind him, listening to the sizzle of fire and the pained growls. When the scurver in front of him began its tell-tale shaking and gurgling, Geralt rolled backwards, narrowly avoiding a swipe from the other, smoking scurver.

He jumped to his feet and continued backing away, waiting for the wet bang of bursting monster. It blasted apart, spewing spines in a wide radius. The remaining “clever” one managed to dodge the missiles and it ran at Geralt head-on. Geralt raised his sword, unable to do anything else. Then the high whine of a bullet cut the air and the scurver flew sideways, scattering spines. Several more bullets slammed into it, leaving splatters of impact over its head and torso. The scurver shuddered and curled in on itself. Geralt sprinted away from it, hearing the flesh explode behind him.  One spine struck the back of his leg, but it was a weakened ricochet hit and didn’t pierce his clothing.

Geralt raised his eyes to the bank where Milva stood, lowering her rifle. “Any more?” he shouted.

She shook her head.

Geralt gathered some spines and blood from the corpses and dropped a bomb in the straw-and-stick nest to prevent any other scurvers from making a home there.

“Thanks for the backup,” he said as he pulled himself up the muddy shelf to higher ground.

“Definitely best to target those from a distance,” she said. “Why the hell do they explode anyway?”

“Gas glands in the chest cavity,” Geralt said. “Helps them stay buoyant in water and take out attackers who threaten the nest.”

They hiked back to the road, changed clothes, and got lunch at the old Cockatrice Cafe. Geralt ordered the famous crayfish chowder and Milva got fish and chips. The windows, speckled with the pattern of dried rain, looked out over the shining stretch of water where the river widened and smoothed.

Geralt chewed and swallowed a mouthful of the rich chowder. “By the way…” he said slowly. “Regis knows about us—well, about me. He figured out I’m a witcher.”

Milva’s eyes widened. “How’d he react?”

“He wants to help,” Geralt said. “You know Regis. He’s no homeopathic hippie with a kitschy shop. He had a book with the cleansing ritual in it and he sells all kinds of herbs that are used in potions and spells. I sometimes wonder if he’s a retired mage or something.”

“He must be somebody special,” Milva mused. “I’d never even heard of witchers before you told me, and he recognized you were one on sight? That’s weird.” She pushed another fry into her mouth and chewed in silent contemplation. “Well, we can use all the help we can get. I still don’t know what we’re gonna do when summer rolls around and Eithné’s out of school.”

“I’ve been thinking we should ask Angoulême to babysit,” Geralt said, stirring his chowder. “Doesn’t seem like she has much going on.”

Milva twisted her mouth to one side. “I don’t exactly see her as the nurturing type.”

Geralt dipped his bread in the chowder. “I wouldn’t have called you the nurturing type either at first glance, but it turns out you’re a great mom. Besides, she can’t help liking Eithné. It’s physically impossible.”

“Oh, she gets on your nerves sometimes,” Milva countered, poking a fry in his direction.

“Only when she keeps asking to have sword fights with my blades,” Geralt said. “Just wait till she starts begging you to take her to the shooting range.”

“She’s already asked for a gun for her birthday,” Milva said with a sigh. “Do you think we’re a bad influence, Geralt? I don’t want her to grow up like I did, thinking weapons and violence were my whole identity.”

Geralt shook his head but didn’t have a reassuring answer. Milva hadn’t ever talked about her childhood much, or why she had started hunting werewolves in the first place. He didn’t know if she’d actually served in the military. He didn’t know a single fact about Eithné’s father. Milva simply never alluded to her past life and Geralt didn’t feel privileged to ask. He himself didn’t like talking about Vesemir’s school and the trial of the grasses. He’d never known his parents and much of his early life seemed to have passed in a fog. There were places in his memory that he shied away from instinctively. Some things were better left in the past.

They ate in silence for a while, listening to the trio of old ladies in the booth behind them chatter about TV shows and their grandchildren. Nobody seemed to really care what the others were saying, they just wanted to talk about themselves.

“Let’s go,” Milva said, crumpling up her napkin and pushing it into the empty, grease-darkened paper container. “Eithné’s bus will be coming.”

The concert started at eight, so they had time to make dinner with Eithné—grilled chicken with broccoli—before Milva got changed and said goodbye. As soon as she was out the door, Eithné gave Geralt an assessing look. “Popcorn and soda and a movie?”

“You have school tomorrow,” Geralt said, “and bedtime is at nine.”

“What’s the big deal if I miss an hour of sleep?” Eithné argued, thrusting her chin up defiantly—a move that was so Milva it made Geralt laugh. “I’ll go to bed early tomorrow.”

He pretended to think about it very hard. “Popcorn, no soda, and the movie is less than an hour and half.”

Geralt washed the dishes to the clatter of popcorn in the microwave while Eithné changed into pajamas in her room. Then they settled in and watched an eighty-six-minute film called Lil Bleater about a cute goat with attitude. Eithné snuggled into Geralt’s side and soon forgot about the popcorn. By the time the movie ended, she was struggling to keep her eyes open.

“Time to brush teeth,” Geralt said. “You gotta be in bed before your mom gets home or she’ll cut my head off and mount it on the wall.”

Eithné giggled. “I’ll defend you,” she said. “Just give me one of your swords.”

“Maybe when you’re older.”

When he finally got her settled into bed, nightlight glowing, fan on, glass of water on the nightstand he murmured, “Sweet dreams, kiddo.”

“Night, night, Geralt.”

It was another couple of hours before the concert ended, so Geralt took the opportunity to sort through some of the monster parts he’d harvested, washing and labeling them. Some he could sell online. Some could be used in potions. Then he cleaned and oiled his swords and knives. Finally, he browsed some websites to check for sales on body armor and survival gear.

He was in the middle of pondering whether he could afford new waterproof boots when the door clattered open. Milva sashayed in, glowing pink, arms full of flowers and a glittery plastic crown on her head.

“Did you win a beauty contest?” Geralt said, grinning. “Are you the new Miss Toussaint?”

“Fuck off, Geralt,” Milva said in a slow, grand tone. “The flowers are a gift, if you must know.”

“And the crown?”

“It’s a VIP badge,” Dandelion said, coming through the door. He wore an iridescent white suit with a black tie and matching pocket square. “Those tickets I sent you included backstage passes, you know. No one looks good in a lanyard. The crown was my idea for a unique twist. It would have suited you well, if you’d bothered to come.”

Geralt’s eyebrows shot up. “What are you doing here?”

“He drove me home!” Milva said. “Well, his driver drove us. You should have come, Geralt. There was a full wine bar—for free! And we met Governor Anna Henrietta! And Dandelion got so many flowers. He gave me a bunch.” She thrust them out to Geralt like a baby she didn’t want to hold. “Put them in water or something.”

“I see you took full advantage of the full wine bar,” Geralt said, taking the flowers carefully.

“Oh, don’t judge me,” Milva grumbled. “I know you got smashed with him last night. You could have told me you’d made friends with a celebrity.”

“I didn’t know I had,” Geralt said, looking at Dandelion. “That was very kind, bringing her home. Did you drive her car, or we need to pick it up tomorrow?”

Dandelion waved his hand dismissively. “I’ll have someone deliver it. Don’t even worry.”

“I’m going to bed,” Milva said. “You boys can go out and get fucked up again if you want. I approve.” She disappeared into the hallway.

Bemused, Geralt met Dandelion’s eyes. “Did you have somewhere in mind?” He went to the cupboard for a jar.

“Actually, I was hoping we could return to Regis’ shop and sample some more of that cordial.”

“He’s probably in bed by now,” Geralt said, filling the jar with water and sticking the bouquet in it. “We really shouldn’t wake him up two nights in a row.”

“Oh, I contacted him earlier. He said we are welcome to drop by at any time.”

“It’s nearly midnight, Dandelion. Wouldn’t you rather go to a trendy club or something?”

Dandelion shrugged. “I might have suggested that before I realized you had a partner and family. I wouldn’t dream of encouraging you to cheat on that lovely young woman.”

“We’re not together,” Geralt said wearily. “I’m just the roommate who works with her. Look…let’s just go to Regis’ place. I don’t really feel like picking up anyone tonight anyway.”

“And I have an invitation to dine with the governor tomorrow!” Dandelion said. “I believe she may be developing an interest in me. Whether it goes beyond artistic appreciation or not remains to be seen.”

“All right, we’ll save the scoring for another time,” Geralt said. “Your driver taking us there?”

“Certainly,” Dandelion said. “Just give him the address.”

When they arrived, Regis was indeed awake and fully dressed. “Just reading,” he said, ushering them in. “I was hoping you’d drop by. We don’t get many visitors at this time of night.”

“Milva would have come too, but someone had to be home with Eithné,” Geralt said. “Actually, we were hoping Angoulême might be able to babysit, if she wants to make some extra money sometime.”

“Yeah sure,” Angoulême said from somewhere in the shop, startling Geralt and making Dandelion jump. She popped out between some shelves. “We’ll negotiate a price.”

“Didn’t know you were up,” Geralt muttered.

“I’m in the middle of a Gwent tournament, Gramps” she said, gesturing to her phone. “I just have to beat this guy using the Nilfgaard faction and I’m going to the semi-finals.”

“It’s an app,” Dandelion told Geralt.

“It’s actually a very old game,” Regis informed them, as he went behind the bar. “We used to play it with actual paper cards.”

“How come I’m ‘Gramps’ and Regis is ‘Uncle?’” Geralt demanded. “At least I know what apps are.”

“Your hair is all white,” Angoulême said, “and you wear it in a ponytail like those biker grandpas. Uncle has a sense of style.”

“Thank you,” Regis said, bringing glasses and the large, dark bottle. “I believe I have gone beyond ‘retro’ and into ‘antiquated’ but I wear what is comfortable for me.”

“It’s in fashion,” Angoulême assured him. She returned to her game.

Geralt looked down at his outfit: black t-shirt with a few tiny holes by the right shoulder seam, jeans that had faded at the knees and frayed slightly at the ankles, and scuffed workman boots. Nothing terribly embarrassing.

Regis met his eyes as his head came up. “You look well, Geralt. You also wear what is comfortable for you.”

“But there is something to be said for a sense of style,” Dandelion proclaimed as he settled onto a stool. “What you wear signals what kind of person you are and who you want to attract.”

“Maybe I don’t want to attract anyone,” Geralt grumbled. Yen had always nagged him about his clothes, especially when they were meeting people. He’d loathed the stuffy suits and blazers she had insisted he wear to events.

“I don’t think Geralt has any trouble attracting people, when he wants to,” Regis said, pouring the amber liquor into three low glasses.

“Damn straight,” Geralt said firmly, taking a seat. Maybe he’d been in a bit of a dry spell since his last break up with Yen, but he just hadn’t felt like playing the field again. A swig of the cordial ran down his throat like liquid fire and soon sent his head floating pleasantly.

“Geralt,” Dandelion said after sipping from his own glass. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about this business with curses. Is this a trade you perform regularly? Do you have a business set up for it?”

“Not really,” Geralt admitted. “I just sometimes stumble on cases where curses come up. Most people don’t want to believe it’s real, so I don’t see how I could advertise or anything like that.”

Dandelion sloshed the cordial in his glass. “There are charlatan fortune tellers and mystics on every street corner preying or tourists. Priests of the Eternal Fire claim they can exorcise demons. If they can advertise their trade, why can’t you? People can choose whether or not to believe it.”

“The difference is that I can’t tell the future or read your palm, and I’m not gonna pretend I can. I can only lift curses when they actually exist. So, if someone is blaming their life problems on a curse when it’s just shitty luck, there’s nothing I can do. It’s a pretty select number of people that are actually cursed. And they don’t always know it.”

“I see.” Dandelion frowned. “Where did you even learn how to do things like curse-lifting rituals? Is there an online class you can take?”

“I’m a witcher,” Geralt said bluntly. “I was raised in a witcher school. We’re trained from an early age to fight monsters and break curses. They gave us special decoctions to create mutations that make us faster, stronger, and resistant to toxins.” He didn’t even mind saying it. Perhaps the alcohol humming through his veins numbed him to the usual fears.

“A witcher?” Dandelion rolled the word over his tongue. “Related in some way to witches?”

“Witchers are unique individuals with enhanced abilities, chosen ones who protect humans,” Regis said, cupping his own glass in his hands. “They are quite rare. I had thought they might be extinct.”

“Not many of us left. I don’t know if any of the witchers from my school are still living. And they haven’t made any new ones in decades. We’ll die out before long.” He took another drink, savored the burn.

“I’ve read that it’s a very painful and dangerous process to become one,” Regis said. “Perhaps it’s best that the practice has ceased.”

“It’s hell,” Geralt breathed, looking down into the sheen of light on the surface of his liquor. “More than half of the boys died. And it’s a fucking horrible way to go. Feels like your body is turning inside out.”

Silence rolled over them. Geralt head the clink of Dandelion’s glass against his teeth. Heard Regis’ quiet, even breaths.

Then a scream from the nearby shelves split the air. Angoulême stomped out, pulling out her earbuds and shaking her phone in one tightly clenched hand. “Motherfucker was holding onto a scorch card until the end!” she shrieked. “This is why I fucking hate Nilfgaard. They throw a dozen spy cards at you and then wait until you’ve laid down a horn to wipe out your highest row! It should be illegal!”

“Come sit and have a drink,” Regis said soothingly.

“Oh, I’m getting shit-faced tonight,” Angoulême declared. “Count on that.” She climbed on a stool and slammed her phone onto the counter.

Regis poured her half a glass and she threw it back, then doubled over coughing. “Holy fucking hell, it’s the mandrake cordial,” she rasped when she could finally speak. “Thank Lebioda.”

“Slowly, slowly,” Regis said with a gentle smile.

“Regis, how is it that you know so much about curses and witch-men and such?” Dandelion questioned. “I must admit I’ve never encountered such subjects before.

“I’m a scholar of unusual topics,” Regis said. He ran his thumb up and down the side of his glass. “I’ve learned quite a bit over the years about different creatures and people that most would relegate to storybooks. Indeed, it can be challenging to separate the truth from the literary embellishments and determine what is real and what is mere superstition.”

“Are you saying fairytales are real?” Dandelion asked with a note of scorn.

“Some elements are,” Regis replied. “Of course, only the people who witnessed events firsthand can truly testify to their veracity.” He gestured to Geralt. “Ask our seasoned friend here if ghouls only exist in stories to frighten children.”

“Oh, they’re real,” Geralt said darkly. “I just killed a pair in the cemetery near here last month. Scrawny ones, but still dangerous. I think the cremation trend is starving them out.”

“Are you joking?” Dandelion exclaimed, turning incredulous eyes to Geralt. “It’s one thing to find out curses are real, but monsters are too? Why have I never seen one?”

“They tend to avoid heavily populated areas and when they do show up, people dismiss them as wild animals or weirdos in scary costumes trying to get prank videos. I guess the authorities don’t want people to panic. Honestly, monster populations have been declining rapidly since the fourteenth century, but we sometimes see upticks, like recently. Not sure why so many monsters are coming to Toussaint now, but something is drawing them.”

“There is a prophecy…” Regis started to say. He stopped and frowned. “I’ll have to find it and review its contents.”

“If fairytales are real…does that mean religion is too?” Dandelion had a sour look on his face. “Should I have been giving offerings to Melitele and following Lebioda’s teachings and purifying myself for the Eternal Flame?”

“Nope,” Angoulême said slurping loudly from her glass.

“Some religious practitioners can draw from sources of power, knowingly or not,” Regis said. “This allows them to perform unusual deeds and feel that they are communing with a deity. However, in general, most religious practices are based on fears, superstitions, and enforcing moral codes. That doesn’t mean they can’t be beneficial to communities…but I think we all know that religion has its darker side, as with the Knights of the Flaming Rose who enforce their own ideas of justice in the name of the Eternal Fire. They believe they can do no wrong because they are working for a holy cause.

“I ran into one of the knights when I was tracking a barghest down by the old paper mill,” Geralt said. “He tried to exorcise the barghest with a golden flame pendant and it slashed his face open. You’d think that would have shaken his belief, but he just said the Eternal Fire was testing him.” He snorted softly.

“That’s all very well, fellows; I’m glad to know I don’t need to tithe. But the real question is, are elves and fairies real? Are there unicorns prancing around somewhere?” Dandelion asked playfully. “Should I be wearing garlic to avoid vampires and carry salt to ward off ghosts?”

“Salt does nothing for ghosts and garlic is just a seasoning to vampires,” Geralt said. “Sorry to say that there’s not much you can do to protect yourself from beasties except to avoid wandering alone in secluded places. A silver knife might slow them down.”

Regis nodded. “I’ve never seen a unicorn, but I believe elves still exist in small numbers in the Blue Mountains. They were hunted for centuries and barely survived annihilation.”

“Really?” Geralt said. “I thought they were all wiped out with the dwarves and halflings.”

“There are still dwarves deep in the mountains,” Regis said. “I don’t know of any halflings are still living. Dryads dwelled in Brokilon until recently. I believe human development has pushed them out.”

“Brokilon National Forest?” Dandelion sputtered. “You’re telling me tree people lived there recently?”

“It’s a very large forest and very old,” Regis said. “Dryads are masters of eluding discovery.”

“Merciful Melitele,” Dandelion said, laughing shakily. “Did you know all this, Angoulême?”

“Not really,” Angoulême said. “I mean, Uncle’s always been into fringe stuff. It wouldn’t surprise me if the government is keeping secrets from us, though.

“But whole other species?” Dandelion demanded. “It simply doesn’t seem plausible.”

Geralt shrugged. “Like I said, people believe what they want to believe. I just do my work, when I can find it.”

“You need a website,” Angoulême stated, swaying a little on her stool. “Nobody came to Uncle’s shop before I put it online. It’s super easy and domains are getting cheaper and cheaper.”

“You think I’d get jobs that way?” Geralt asked, skeptical. “It’s been a long time since anyone has actually paid me for an extermination.”

“How do you make money?” Dandelion questioned, looking puzzled.

“I sell dismembered monster parts and I change the oil in cars,” Geralt lifted the glass to his lips. “Monster-hunting is not a very lucrative career. I don’t recommend it.”

“And yet, if you weren’t around, we’d probably be overrun with ravenous beasts,” Regis said. “The people of this area owe a great debt to you, and they don’t even know it.”

Geralt drained his glass and breathed through the burn. “Well, at least you three know how important I am. I’m glad I told you guys, in the end.”

“So are we,” Regis assured him, taking Geralt’s glass and tipping another glug of cordial into it.

“Speak for yourself,” Dandelion said, rubbing his temples. “I’m still trying to figure out if this is all a hallucination brought on by the contents of that bottle.”

“But think of how cool it is,” Angoulême reminded him. “You’re a storyteller, aren’t you? Why not use Geralt’s stories in your work? Witcher: The Chosen One. I’m thinking you’re about due for a rock-opera.”

“Hmm…” Dandelion considered it. “Geralt have you ever battled a dragon or an evil sorcerer? That would be an exciting epic.”

“Well, I’ve had plenty of fights with a certain sorceress,” Geralt muttered, picking up his glass again.

“Oooh, sounds like a juicy story,” Angoulême sang. “Did she seduce you in her lair?”

“In a way,” Geralt said. He sighed and shook his head. “No, that’s not fair. I chased after her. For far too long.” He took another big mouthful of liquor. “Ugh. Let’s talk about something else.”

The conversation drifted then to Gwent and song-writing and then to the proper way to process mandrake root. Geralt felt himself gliding through an undulating haze of intoxication, the low lights warming the tiny bar space, and Regis standing, leaning on the counter. His sleeves were pushed up to reveal his sturdy forearms: pale skin shining with dark hair, strong, large-veined hands. His fingernails gleamed in the golden light of the lamps.

Gradually, Dandelion slumped into the counter, resting his head on his folded arm. His eyes drifted closed and his mouth finally shut. Soon after, Angoulême wobbled up the stairs to go to bed.

Regis cast his eyes over Geralt. “Not tired?”

“Not at all,” Geralt said, although his eyes were heavy and his pulse slow.

“You have quite a high alcohol tolerance,” Regis remarked. “Witcher metabolism?”

“Sure,” Geralt said with a tilt of his head. “Sit down, Regis. You’ve been standing all night.”

Regis seemed to hesitate for a moment, then he rounded the bar and took a seat next to Geralt. He smelled strongly of herbs: pungent aniseed, sharp mint, earthy coriander, and burnt sage.

“You’ve hardly touched your drink,” Geralt said softly.

Regis’ mouth quirked. “I prefer to keep my senses sharp. Intoxication has a dangerous effect on me and I tend to make poor choices.”

“A teetotaler who brews strong alcohol? That’s an interesting paradox,” Geralt mused. “Do you make it just to sell it?”

“I did,” Regis admitted, “but I’m happy to share it with friends. It’s not as though I need the extra income. I just like to keep my skills sharp.”

“You’re never get tempted to just drain a barrel?” Geralt asked. “Seems like a risky prospect to keep liquor around.”

Regis brushed a fingernail over a scratch in the counter. “I’ve spent many years developing a substantial amount of self-control. I can now trust myself not to overindulge. My life depends on it.”

“Wish I had self-control,” Geralt said. There was still a little liquid left in his glass. He rolled it around with a twist of his wrist.

“Geralt, that sorceress you mentioned earlier…” Regis stopped, steadied his shoulders. “Did you make any sort of promise or vow regarding her?” He didn’t meet Geralt’s eyes, but looked to the shelves behind the bar lined with bottles and jars.

“Are you trying to ask me if I’m single?” Geralt said with a smile, feeling the warm glow of the liquor intensify. “I had no idea you were interested.”

Regis froze, then his head jerked to look at Geralt. “I wasn’t… That wasn’t my intention.”

“It was a joke, Regis,” Geralt reassured him, feeling an odd sense of disappointment. “I was just kidding. No, I was never married or promised to her or anyone else. Witchers generally aren’t big on commitment. Why do you ask?”

Regis let out a slow breath. “I don’t know how to tell you this. I’ve studied magical bonds extensively and I have an ability to perceive auras and spells when they are obvious. When I look at you, I see a pale blue magical thread reaching out from your aura. It trails through the wall and fades. I don’t know where the other end leads, but someone has bonded you to another person or place.”

Geralt set down his glass with a heavy hand. His head juddered with confusion and disbelief. “What are you saying? Someone put a spell on me to attach me to someone else? Wouldn’t I be able to feel it?”

Regis nodded. “You may feel a compulsive desire for this person or place, and emptiness when you are far away. It is not natural. Someone used powerful magic to forge this bond.”

Geralt swore viciously. “Is there any way to break it?”

“I’d have to know the source of the power,” Regis said. “Perhaps there is a possibility that we can reverse it.”

“Yen,” Geralt breathed.

After Dandelion’s driver was called and he was safely on his way home, Regis brought Geralt up the stairs to the roof garden. Clusters of pots overflowing with greenery were arranged in neat squares. Pink honeysuckle bloomed next to purple wolfsbane and red berbercane berries. A little greenhouse occupied one corner. Trellises rising on the eastern edge were covered in hops vines, nostrix, and bryonia.

The cool night air soothed Geralt’s hot skin and sloshing head. He sat on a bench and looked up at the stars faintly visible through the haze of city lights. Half a moon hung above them, lending a little light.

“I’d rather do this with you sober,” Regis said, pressing a vial into Geralt’s palm.

“What is it? White Honey?”

“Wives’ Tears,” Regis said. “It’s a very old recipe.”

Geralt unscrewed the cap and tipped it down his throat. As the bitter taste hit his tongue, it occurred to him that he was putting a lot of trust in Regis, a man he didn’t even know much about. But as his head cleared and the soft edges of the world sharpened around him, he felt certain he’d made the right choice.

“Drink this next,” Regis ordered, giving Geralt a small bottle. “It lights up any magical markers in your body. Allows me to scan you better.”

“Can you even see out here in the dark?” The light of the half-moon barely illuminated the edges of leaves and cement. Geralt’s pupils were stretched wide to see Regis’ slender form and familiar face washed even paler by the light of the moon.

“I won’t be using my eyes,” Regis said.

Who the fuck are you? Geralt wanted to say. But he just opened the bottle and chugged the lukewarm contents. This one tasted acidic and sharp. It spread cool roots from his belly up to his chest and through his extremities.

“I’m going to hold your head lightly,” Regis said. “Please tell me if you feel any discomfort.” His hands settled on either side of Geralt’s head, fingers pushing though his hair to touch his scalp. His thumbs rested on Geralt’s forehead.

“Just breath regularly and relax,” Regis said.

“Sounds like a prostrate exam,” Geralt quipped, trying to relieve the tension.

“Not quite so invasive,” Regis promised. “Well, not in the same way.”

“Aw, that’s no fun,” Geralt said with a chuckle.

“Geralt,” Regis warned. “Please allow me to concentrate.”

Geralt closed his eyes and regulated his breathing obediently. He didn’t feel any probing pushes in his brain or slinky, skating feather-brushes, like when Yen read his thoughts. There was just a slow radiance sweeping through him like rays of sunlight as he passed from shadow to sun. He smelled the faint scent car exhaust drifting from the streets, the closer smell of green plants and potting soil. And nearest was Regis’ herbal aroma mixed with the musk of old books and the sharp notes of mandrake cordial.

“Oh dear,” Regis said shakily. He pulled his hands away from Geralt’s skin.

Geralt’s eyes shot open. “What? Is it really bad?”

Regis sank slowly to crouch on the flat cement of the roof. He was silent for a moment. “We have a few challenges.”

“Including?” Geralt gripped the edge of the bench with both hands.

“The bond was formed with elemental magic. Extremely strong and binding. Probably the work of a jinn.”

“You mean, someone wished this bond on me?” Geralt snarled. “Someone wasted one of their three precious wishes to trap me?” He tipped back his head with a groan. “Why am I saying ‘someone’? It was clearly a certain powerful sorceress I can’t stop thinking about. She binds me and then she decides to throw me away.”

“Do you remember anything she might have said about summoning a jinn? Anything that might indicate what her wish would be?”

“She probably just got jealous and wanted to keep me from fucking anyone else.” But Geralt doubted the words as soon as they came out of his mouth. Yen could be possessive and petty, but she wouldn’t throw away a perfectly good wish like that. She knew Geralt was already hopelessly in love with her. Or was the love he felt the result of the wish? It didn’t make sense in their timeline. He was the one who had chased her, not the other way around. When he racked his brain for any mentions of a jinn, there was something there, but it faded and fled as soon as he tried to recall it.

“We’ll need to learn more about this jinn and elemental magic in general,” Regis said. He folded his hands over his lap and looked up at Geralt with sympathetic, deep eyes. “But there’s something else. And I hesitate to open this particular box because it may be one that you closed yourself.”

“Just tell me,” Geralt said, pushing back the cold rush in his chest.

Regis took a deep breath. “Someone has gone through your mind and sealed away memories. Not all of them, obviously, just selected ones, but a significant quantity. You may not have even noticed them missing.”

Geralt couldn’t even speak. The stars and lights blurred around him. For years he’d wondered if the mutagens affected his cognitive abilities or if his brain was aging faster than the rest of his body, blanking out random things and throwing him off.

“Please understand,” Regis said, resting a hand on Geralt’s knee, “you may have asked for this to happen. There could be very painful and devastating events and emotions that you wanted locked away. If you attempt to unseal them, you will undo all of your past work.”

“And if someone did this to me without my consent?” Geralt asked in a low growl.

“There’s no way to know until we release them. Just consider all the possible implications before you make a choice. This is magic from a practitioner with precision and skill. It’s not an easy task to seal certain memories and leave others intact. It would be especially difficult to do if the subject was unconscious or unwilling.”

“There’s no way I would have agreed to it,” Geralt argued. “I hate people poking around in my head. No memory is so terrible that I’d ask for a magical lobotomy.”

“Don’t discount the need to forget,” Regis said. He rose carefully to his feet. “We have all experienced regrets and horrors that threaten to overwhelm and cripple us. We either learn to endure them and time blunts the bite, or we give up on life entirely. Perhaps you made the necessary choice to live instead of losing yourself to despair.”

“I need to talk to her,” Geralt said. Numbness was seeping into his chest.

“Sleep, Geralt,” Regis pleaded. “Go home and sleep and think about all of this in the morning. Call me when you’ve decided what you want to do.”

Chapter Text

He tried calling Yen on the way home, but of course it went to voicemail. It was four in the morning. He couldn’t think of the words. In the loft at Milva’s house, he lay awake for a while but eventually fell into a deep sleep, drifting through dreams of pale blue cords wrapping and trapping him.

A few hours later, Eithné’s voice woke him, calling from above. “Geralt, are you up yet?”

“Yup.” Geralt rolled out of bed and threw on a t-shirt over his shorts. “Mom still sleeping?” he asked, climbing down the ladder.

“Yeah, I think she has a headache,” Eithné whispered. “I can make my own breakfast, but I need help packing a lunch.”

“No problem,” Geralt said. “You go and get some breakfast and I’ll make lunch.” He padded into the kitchen and opened the fridge to get bread and jam. Eithné poured herself a bowl of cereal.

In the soft light of morning, spreading peanut butter on a slice of bread, the thought of someone binding his feelings and editing his mind seemed ridiculous. I’m here right now, perfectly fine, making a sandwich, he thought. If Yen fucked with my head, it didn’t ruin my life. But even now when he thought of her, that tug and twist in his heart remained, yanking toward her. Just don’t think of her, then.

He wrapped the sandwich in wax paper, steadfastly not picturing creamy expanses of silky skin and the coy playfulness of Yen’s eyes as she looked up at him, lounging on the little ornate couch after her late morning bath. Nope, nope, nope. He stuffed the sandwich in Eithné’s lunch bag with a baggies of sliced carrots, a cup of yogurt, and a chocolate-chip granola bar.

Behind him he heard the shuffle of Milva’s feet on the hallway floor. He looked up as she entered the kitchen in her huge green bathrobe, yawning and blinking.

Geralt smiled. “Feeling okay? Need a raw egg with tabasco sauce?”

Milva gave him a death glare. “How come you’re so perky this morning? I didn’t hear you come in until the wee hours of the morning.”

“Regis sobered me up before I went home.” Geralt went to the fridge for orange juice.

Milva raised an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”

Geralt poured two glasses of orange juice. “Gave me one of those potions of his that cleared my head. We had to do something we couldn’t do drunk.”

“Oh really?” Milva smirked at him.

“What? No,” Geralt said, laughing. “Okay, I walked right into that one.”

“How’s your headache, Mommy?” Eithné asked through a mouthful of cereal.

“It’s…improving,” Milva said. “You got everything you need, Eith? What do you want for lunch?”

“Geralt already made me a sandwich.”

“Excellent,” Milva said, yawning. “Geralt, are you all right waiting for the bus with her and getting the shop ready to open? My bed is begging for my return.”

“Sure,” Geralt said. He hadn’t had much sleep himself, but he needed to keep busy and distract himself from the storm in his head. He set a glass of orange juice in front of Eithné. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Thank you,” Milva sighed. “As a token of my appreciation, you may have my firstborn child.” She turned and shuffled back down the hall to her bedroom.

Eithné took a gulp of her orange juice, set down the cup, and stirred her cereal milk. After a beat, her eyes widened and head snapped to stare at Geralt with shocked outrage. “Hey, that’s me!”

Time dragged on slow days at the shop. There was nothing scheduled until noon and only one walk-in with a burnt-out headlight. Geralt meditated in his free time to regain some energy. He very consciously did not think about Yen, which was probably why his phone suddenly registered a text from her.

It was a message he had waited almost half a year for and, now that it had come, he didn’t want it.

Meet tonight at 7:00? Important things to talk about.

Geralt read it over and over. Important things? Had she sensed that he knew about the bond and the lost memories? Had his call in the early hours of the morning triggered something she wanted to say? Was she going to confess what she had done? Was she pining for him and couldn’t take it anymore? He read it again. Why was she in town anyway? Perhaps she wanted a booty call. He read it again. More than one important thing?

Milva arrived at the shop just before noon to take over the first scheduled repair: a cracked drive belt. Geralt answered the phone and scheduled more appointments for oil changes. The day limped on. Milva changed tires, topped up fluids, and argued with men twice her size about the cost of parts. On a break between jobs, she pestered Geralt about his silence. “What are you pouting about?”

“Got a text from Yen. She wants to meet and talk.”

Milva’s eyes narrowed. “Geralt, I swear, if you get back together with her…”

“I won’t!” Geralt said. He paused. “Well, probably not. Not until I know the truth, anyway.”

“Argh…” Milva growled, raising her clenched hands in gesture of frustration. “Why are men so predictable? I swear a half-dead fleder has more sense than you. At least it doesn’t keep hopefully crawling back to the person who’s stabbing it.”

“There are some things we really need to discuss,” Geralt said, wondering how much he should tell Milva. The last thing he needed was to rope her into his drama with Yen. “I promise I won’t sleep with her.”

“You know, there are lots of other people out in the world,” Milva said. “Not me, obviously—we’d kill each other. But you used to pick up women all the time, right? Now you just need to take the next step and ask one out on a date. Try coffee or pizza or rock climbing. I think that’s in right now.”

“Thanks,” Geralt said, dryly. “I’ll ask my next potential sexual partner to go rock climbing, if that will make you happy.”

“And then you climb each other,” Milva finished. “It’s so simple.”

He texted Yen for a location and met her promptly at seven at her hotel suite. Mentally preparing himself to resist seduction, he knocked on the smooth white surface of the door. Even the faint scent of lilac and gooseberries drifting from it made his thoughts quiver, sparking that old desire.

She opened it dressed in another sleek suit: black pin-striped with a creamy-white layered blouse peeking out beneath. Her hair was loose this time, and the rustle of her long curls made his fingers twitch with longing to touch.

“Hello, Geralt,” she said in that luxurious voice. “Thank you for coming tonight.”

“Can we talk somewhere else?” He asked, already doubting his self-control. “How about the restaurant or garden?”

“No, I’m sorry,” Yen said softly. “This has to be private.” She opened the door and ushered him inside.

Geralt’s gaze immediately swung to the other person in the room. Emhyr var Emreis, Prime Minister of Nilfgaard leaned comfortably in the plush upholstered chair at the little table, cool eyes surveying Geralt. His dark hair was slicked back as usual and curved to the collar of his crisp white dress shirt. He gestured for Geralt to sit, silver rings glinting from his hand.

“What is this about?” Geralt said in a low, tight voice. “I don’t do assassinations, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Geralt, please just try to listen. We need you to find someone very special. It’s a dangerous job that requires someone with your particular abilities.” Yen moved next to him and stroked a hand over his shoulder.

Geralt’s jaw tightened. “Five months of silence and you bring me here for a missing person job?”

Yen’s fingers pressed into his shoulder. “I had nowhere else to turn. Believe me when I say I never wanted you involved. But this is bigger than both of us.” Her face was close to his.

Geralt turned his head away. “You want me to track down your boyfriend’s enemy? I kill monsters, Yen. You know that and I’m guessing he does too.”

Emhyr pinned Geralt with his heavy, piercing gaze. “It’s my daughter, Cirilla. Powerful people are chasing her and I fear for her safety.” He twisted the glass tumbler on the table in front of him absently and his rings caught Geralt’s eyes again. “But if you agree, you must vow total secrecy. My enemies will surely hunt you if they know you’re on her trail.”

“Guessing you have no shortage of enemies,” Geralt said roughly. “Are you sure she wants to be found?”

“She is headstrong and independent,” Yen said, “But she will recognize that she’s in trouble and needs allies. If you tell her I’m looking for her, she should come without complaint.”

“You know this girl?” Geralt asked, surprised.

“I do,” Yen said in a thin voice. “I did once.”

Up until that point, he had been ready to tell them both to fuck off and hire a private investigator, not a witcher, then stomp out with some righteous indignation. But the note of suppressed sadness in Yen’s voice was so uncharacteristic and unexpected that it set his curiosity into overdrive.

“I’ll need a photo, a detailed description, and any leads you have as to where she’s been seen and what might be driving her.”

Yen and Emhyr exchanged looks. Emhyr twisted around to the desk behind him and picked up a manila envelope. “What we have is in here. Do not lose track of these documents. In fact, please destroy them after you absorb the information. Cirilla’s life and the future of many people depends on it.”

“Points for dramatic delivery,” Geralt said sarcastically, taking the envelope. “I’ll see what I can do, Mr. Prime Minister.”

“Thank you,” Yen said. “You have no idea how important this is.”

“Speaking of important things…” Geralt said, giving her a long look. “You and I have a few topics to chat about in private.”

Yen pushed her fingers into her temples. “Not tonight, Geralt. This was about business only.”

Geralt didn’t budge. “I’ve got business to talk about too. It involves a jinn. And it’s about you and me alone.”

Yen stayed poised, but he knew her well enough to recognize the moment of shock. Her eyes were too still and fingers too stiff. “I see,” she said grandly. “Let’s speak privately.” She turned to Emhyr. “Mr. Prime Minister, I will see you in the morning.”

“Indeed, Miss Yennefer.” Emhyr stood slowly and smoothly, picking up his glass and finishing his drink in a fluid movement. “I expect a report from you soon, Witcher,” he said to Geralt and he made his way to the door.

As the latch clicked shut, Geralt glared at Yen. “Are you actually fucking that guy? He’s a smarmy dictator stinking of entitlement.”

“He is an extremely powerful and ambitious man,” Yen said. “This is work for me, you know that. I help men like this all the time. That’s how I make a living.”

“Yeah, but there’s a difference between pompous CEOs and war-hungry world leaders,” Geralt pointed out. “You piss him off, you don’t get fired and lose your stock options. You get a quick snip to the neck and a swim in the Pontar.”

“Emhyr is ruthless, but he has a vision,” Yen countered. “He doesn’t crave violence and war. He just wants to make the best possible world for his people.”

“Yeah, conveniently a world where he’s the one in charge.”

Yen sighed and brushed her hair over one shoulder. Her neck was slim and lovely as the bend of a river. “Geralt, is there something you wanted to say to me?”

“Yeah,” Geralt said, starting to pace the glossy hardwood floor. “I got a friend who scanned me for magical influences and he noticed a thing or two.”

Yen leaned back against the wall, hair pressing into the golden leaves on the wallpaper. “And you jumped to the conclusion that I cruelly manipulated your mind and body for my own uses?”

“Well, why did you decide to bind me to you then? Just thought I needed a buddy and thoughtfully wished yourself into my life?”

“Geralt, you made that wish,” Yen shot back. “I had nothing to do with it.” She hugged her arms close to herself. “I admit, I was charmed by your devotion at first…but how can I know which feelings are real and which were wished into existence? I thought it wouldn’t matter, but it did. And the more we clung to each other, the more our jealous, hateful sides emerged.”

“I wished it?” Geralt felt his heart drop to his bowels. He moved close to her, looking for the veracity in her troubled, beautiful face. “I bound us together?”

“I’ve looked for ways to reverse it,” Yen said softly. “But only a jinn can override a jinn’s magic. I have yet to catch one, although I’ve followed many leads.”

I wished it, Geralt thought, suddenly knowing it was true. He had made his own prison. And for what? Infatuation with a gorgeous, clever, ambitious sorceress who had captured his imagination the first time he had met her, wrapped in furs and soft with sleep.

“I don’t want you to think I’m trying to dissolve our bond in order to escape you,” Yen said, touching his jaw with just the tips of her fingers. “I just want to know what’s real. And if we’re not forced to love each other because of magic, can we be kinder, more forgiving?”

“I don’t know,” Geralt said, uncertain. “But I want it broken too. And I want to know why my memories are gone.”

“Oh,” Yen drew back, shoulders sinking. She dropped her head to stare at the whorls in the wood of the floor. “I don’t know how much I can tell you. It happened to me too, but I was able to recover them with magical treatments. All I can say is that they were taken for a reason, to protect you. Trust me when I say it was for the best.”

Geralt swallowed hard. “Did I ask for it?”

She blinked slowly and bit her lip. “You accepted it. There was no other choice in the situation. Please believe me.”

“And if I try to recover my memories?”

Yen’s head lifted and she met his eyes. “You will put yourself and the people you love in grave danger.”

“Are you in danger?” he asked.

“Geralt, I am in peril every moment, but I am one of the most powerful sorceresses living. I can protect myself. You don’t even know who you would be fighting.”

“Then tell me,” he demanded.

He stopped at Regis’ shop on the way home. It was closed for the night, but when he knocked, Regis was there, a plastic fork in one hand.

“Oh! Hello, Geralt. We’re just enjoying some Olfieri takeout. Would you like some?”

Geralt suddenly realized he was starving. He sat with Regis and Angoulême at the bar, shoveling spiced food into his mouth and just listening to them chatter about the shop and the website and Gwent and the live shows she was going to. Angoulême showed him the site she had created—Geralt of Rivia: Unusual Solutions for Extraordinary Situations.

“Sounds like I’m a life coach or a hitman,” Geralt grumbled.

“Oh, be grateful,” Angoulême ordered. “I’m gonna advertise you on some of these New Age witches and occult forums. You may only get requests for finding lost cats at first, but some real jobs should roll in.”

“Speaking of which,” Geralt said, pulling the slightly crumpled manila envelope out of his bag, “My ex gave me an assignment to find the daughter of a certain asshole prime minister.” He dumped the contents on the counter. “I haven’t even looked at it yet.”

Angoulême pawed through the papers and pulled out a photo. “Is this her?”

It was taken at a distance and showed a young woman, probably in her twenties, with pale hair tied back in a bun. You could only see part of her face and the light was dim. She appeared to be in a basement or windowless building made of cement blocks. There were bars on one side of the frame, but she didn’t appear to be locked in. She looked to the bars with a wary twist to her mouth. Behind her was a thin man with tattoo sleeves on both arms holding something small and metallic in one hand.

“Here’s a better picture,” Regis said, passing the photo to Geralt. “She looks rather like you, Angoulême, doesn’t she?”

Cirilla also had white-blond hair and big green eyes, but she appeared a little older than Angoulême and had a dramatic red scar stretching from her forehead, over her eye ridge, and across her cheek. She was attractive in a delicate, ethereal way, but the expression she showed to the camera clearly challenged the photographer to make one wrong move.

“I guess,” Angoulême said. “But I’ve got better style. That top is something a prep school wannabe would wear.”

“She doesn’t look anything like him,” Geralt muttered. “Emhyr better not be sending me to track down a piece of tail that got away.”

“It looks like he gave you a fact sheet and some reports of locations she’s been seen at,” Regis said, sorting through the other papers. “Not a lot to go on, especially if she trying to avoid detection.”

“Yeah…” Geralt said, eyes skating over the second photo of Cirilla again. “Something about this is rubbing me the wrong way. I feel like I’m missing something, and I don’t like it. If she’s ready to come willingly back to Daddy, why hasn’t she by now? And if she doesn’t want to go back to him, why should I waste my time looking for her? Not like I’m gonna stuff her in a burlap sack and carry her kicking and screaming back to him.”

“Very true,” Regis said, gathering all the papers and photos together. “Shall I put these away?”

Geralt nodded. “I’ll deal with that later. For now, I wanted to pick your brain about the Lodge of Sorceresses. Ever heard of them?”

Regis pushed the neat stack back into the envelope. “Yes, they formed after the Council of Mages dissolved. I’ve heard they are trying to influence politics and bring back the custom of mages advising world leaders, all behind the scenes, of course.”

“Did it ever go away?” Geralt asked. “Obviously Yen is working for Emhyr and I’m sure there were other mages in the room at that summit here. That redhead with Foltest was far too pretty and well-dressed to be an aide.”

“Well, it’s hardly common,” Regis countered. “The sorceresses would like magic to stay hidden from the common folk so that they can continue to work behind the scenes like puppet masters and wield god-like influence over a population that doesn’t know of their existence.”

“And why would they be after me?” Geralt wondered aloud. “I don’t care who’s running the government. They can have their little games and schemes. I just wanna kill giant centipedes and angry poison-spewing plants.”

“Did you break up with a sorceress?” Angoulême asked. “Dumped people. That’s where I get the most hate from. That and posting shit on Gwent forums.”

“I broke up with Yen, but she’s not in the Lodge,” Geralt said. “She told me they’ll come after me if I regain my memories, but without those memories, I have no idea why.”

“Wait, you have amnesia?” Angoulême squealed. “Is this As the Spheres Turn? Is Uncle pregnant with your twins?”

“Selective amnesia,” Regis said with his pursed smile. He looked to Geralt, “And we’ll only reverse it if you want to. I don’t have any idea why the Lodge would target you, but perhaps it’s safer to leave the memories sealed for now.”

Before Geralt could respond, the door rattled with a loud knock. Regis hopped off his stool and went to it.

Geralt turned around on his stool but couldn’t see the door from his position. The shelves blocked his view. He felt a twinge of danger, although his medallion didn’t move. He touched the silver knife sheathed inside his sleeve.

Regis returned with a companion: a tall, dark-haired man with intense, deep-set eyes. He stopped and stared when he saw Geralt, tense gaze dropping into a glower. He looked as though he might arch his back and hiss, like the cats Geralt passed.

Regis seemed oblivious to the other man’s reaction. “Geralt, this is my good friend, Dettlaff. Dettlaff, this is Geralt of Rivia, a favorite customer.”

Bitter bile rose in Geralt’s throat. He’s a good friend and I’m a favorite customer?

“Hey, Dett,” Angoulême said, still scraping at her takeout container. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“I’ve been…busy,” Dettlaff answered in a rough voice.

“How’s Rhena?”

“She’s well.” Dettlaff turned his eyes to Regis with a pointed glare. “Emiel, shall we go?”

“Yes, well, we have something to discuss upstairs in the garden,” Regis said briskly. “Won’t be long.”

When they had disappeared up the stairs, Geralt locked eyes with Angoulême. “What was that about?”

Angoulême shrugged and threw a crumpled napkin into her takeout container. “He used to give me the wiggins too, before I got to know him. He’s weird, but he and Uncle go way back. Uncle said, ‘I owe my life to him’ so you know it’s deep.”

Geralt frowned. “If they’re so damn close, how come I’ve never seen him before? I’m here all the time.”

“He hasn’t been in much in the past couple months. He got a hot new girlfriend, so I guess he’s spending time with her. And Uncle usually goes to Dett’s house when they hang out, so he’s not here often.”

“He looked at me like he wanted to stab me in the dick,” Geralt grumbled.

“Oh, he just doesn’t like new people,” Angoulême explained with a wave of her hand. “He’s very private and protective of Uncle, I think. If he didn’t have a girlfriend, I think they’d be good together because Uncle always calms him down and they can be two weirdos in love. But Rhena’s a real snack. I can see why he’s stuck on her.”

After Angoulême cleared away the mess on the counter and retreated to her room, Geralt studied some of the papers from the envelope. One showed that Cirilla had spotted at a brothel in Novigrad and a bookstore in Oxenfurt. There was no way Geralt was traveling that far for this job, especially not without upfront payment. He could however look into her appearance at the Coronata vineyard, if he felt like it. The chance that he could discover more than Emhyr’s spies already had seemed highly unlikely, though.

After some time, Dettlaff and Regis came down the stairs and Dettlaff departed without saying a word. The door thudded shut behind him.

Regis settled onto the stool next to Geralt. “Did you consume all the food?”

Geralt nodded sheepishly. “Sorry. I can order some more.”

“No, I had enough,” Regis said. “I’m glad you were able to adequately nourish yourself. I imagine your life has been fairly eventful lately, and it may be hard to get proper nutrition.”

“You have no idea,” Geralt said. “Well, actually you do. In addition to my memory problems, I talked to Yen about the elemental bond too.”

“I’d hoped you might be able to get some clarity,” Regis said.

Geralt related what Yen had told him. “I feel like such an idiot for running after her all these years. How long have I been thinking I can’t get her out of my head because we’re truly meant to be together? It’s all fake.”

“Not all,” Regis said. “Obviously you felt something deeply if you made the wish in the first place. What has developed since then is suspect, but not totally insincere.”

“I just wish she’d told me,” Geralt groaned. “Why didn’t she say anything? She let me suffer in ignorance for ages. To protect me? I’d rather have painful honesty than kind silence. That’s all I could think about when she kissed me goodbye. I couldn’t forgive her for not saying anything.”

“Of course,” Regis said softly. He stared out the window at the long, shining streaks of a sudden rain storm.

Instead of going home, Geralt stopped at stopped at Belles of Beauclair for a massage and quick screw. It had been a while, and his favorite, Clarisse, was as skilled and fun as ever, but afterwards, he didn’t feel any better.

He wondered if he should have taken advantage of the moment that Yen hesitated in the middle of saying goodbye and stretched up to kiss him briefly, one hand light on the side of his neck. “Don’t do anything stupid. Come back to me in one piece.”

In the heavy, pulsing silence that followed, he could have reached out and pulled her close, but he didn’t. Don’t do anything stupid. But what if he had? Was it stupid to want love? Or was it simply the pull of the jinn’s bond that made him crave her embrace like an addiction?

When he got home, Milva was in her pajamas cleaning her guns as she watched an old horror show on TV with cartoonish vampires in bad prosthetics. She glanced up at him as he came in.

“You were gone a while. Gonna tell me you didn’t fuck her?”

Geralt took off his jacket and hung it up. “Don’t worry, I fucked someone, but not Yen. You can applaud my willpower now if you want.”

Milva snorted. “You want congratulations for buying a whore?”

“They prefer the term ‘sex-worker’ and no, you should congratulate me for not collapsing into Yen when she kissed me and not going out to find some random woman at a bar to drag into my misery.”

“Well, if you put it that way...” She gave him a slow clap. “Did you at least get some closure?”

“Not really,” he admitted, leaning on the counter that looked into the living room. He ran his eyes over the surroundings: second-hand furniture in decent condition, a faded but clean carpet, Eithné’s artwork on the walls. The house could use a few thousand crowns in renovations, but it wasn’t embarrassingly bad. “Why don’t we invite Regis and Angoulême over for dinner some time? He’s always treating us.”

“Sure,” Milva said. “What brought this on?”

“I was just at his place and I thought about it.”

She leaned back and gave him a long look. “Never known you to be very sociable before. Are you trying to impress Regis?”

“What? No,” Geralt said. “It’s just not fair that we’re always hanging out there. I bet they’d like to get some free grub once in a while.”

“All right. Dinner for our friends. Just don’t forget to invite Regis to go rock climbing later.”

“Hah, very funny,” Geralt grumbled.

Chapter Text

He dreamed he was at the big ice rink in the mall, skating over the dusty white surface of the ice. He held the mittened hand of a little girl. At first, he thought it was Eithne. She looked to be around seven. But his girl had paler hair—almost white—and a round face with sharp green eyes. She tugged at his hand, trying to get him to go faster. “Hang on,” he said, arm stretched tight.

Then she let go of his hand and skated a big circle around him, laughing. “Slow down!” he warned her. But that only made her go faster. Her skates clacked as she sped through the swirling crowd of other people gliding and wobbling on the ice. Brown and black coats closed around her. Geralt slipped and flailed, trying to follow her. Kids and parents were weaving and spinning around him. Lovers skated slowly side by side. But his daughter had vanished among them all, her white parka fading into the powdery surface of the ice.

He woke, chest tight, sweat under his arms. What a weird dream. Somehow his brain had combined Eithne and Angoulême and made them into his daughter. Yikes. Sure, Eithne was all right most of the time, but he shuddered at the thought of trying to raise Angoulême.

When he checked his phone, he saw that there was still another hour before sunrise. And excellent time for a dawn patrol. When he had the chance, Geralt liked to patrol the nests he’d destroyed to make sure that the creatures hadn’t returned, as they sometimes did. The nekkers near Beauclair preferred shallow caves on the dryer side of the Caroberta Woods. He usually went early in the morning or after dusk to avoid encountering hikers, trail-runners, or hunters. But sometimes it was impossible to avoid the general nature-loving populace.

He startled a pair of bird-watchers who had arrived with the sunrise and they stared at him bug-eyed. It was hard to carry a silver sword inconspicuously. By the time he’d checked the dens over for signs of recent habitation, taken notes of some old tracks that led nowhere, and headed back to the parking lot, it was too late. A pair of uniformed officers approached from the trailhead.

Geralt resisted the urge to run and simply nodded at them.

The older one, a red-faced man with a beaky nose, whose polished name pin read P. Launfal spoke first. “Sir, we’ve had reports of a man carrying a weapon and we believe it might be you. Do you have a purpose for bringing a large blade onto public land?”

“It’s not illegal to carry a sword if it stays sheathed,” Geralt pointed out. He knew the law by now.

“And do you have a reason for carrying around a sheathed sword?”

“It’s a religious ritual,” Geralt lied. “I must walk around the woodland shrine thrice carrying a blessed blade.”

The older cop looked uncomfortable. The younger snickered. He was dark-haired, lean, and muscular, the sort of stereotypical golden boy you’d picture as a rookie officer. His name pin read C. Ceallach.

“You got any ID on you?” he asked.

“Am I being arrested or searched?” Geralt demanded. “Do you have a warrant?”

“For your sword? No, it’s not illegal to carry it, but we like to know who is bringing sharp things into public parks for their mysterious rituals. The law says we can ask for identification of anyone acting suspiciously.”

“Suspicious is a relative term,” Geralt complained, pulling out his wallet and handing the officer his license. “People who come into the park with binoculars at the crack of dawn and claim to be fascinated by birds seem pretty suspicious to me.”

“Duly noted,” the younger man said, scanning his ID. “Geralt, is it?” He raised his gaze. “I’m Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach and this is Officer Palmarin de Launfal. We’ve seen you around here before, I think.”

“I like the woods,” Geralt said dryly. “I just feel closer to the spirits of the earth here.”

“You like the lake too,” Cahir said. “You match the description of someone reported skulking around behind the condos in the Seidhe Llydad port district. You’re a pretty distinctive-looking guy, aren’t you?”

“Just an evening stroll,” Geralt said. “Looking for good fishing spots.”

“In the dark with a sword on your back?”

“It’s a spiritual thing,” Geralt explained, daring Cahir with his eyes.

“We can’t arrest you for anything right now,” Officer Milton said. “But if you get caught trespassing or scaring innocent citizens again, we will take action.”

Geralt snorted. “Oh, I definitely wouldn’t want you to take action. I promise to be a good boy and stay out of sight.”

He strode around the officers and walked quickly the rest of the way to his car. He could hear them following at a distance, speaking quietly about what he might be up to. Milton seemed to think he was just a harmless crackpot off his meds while Cahir argued that Geralt clearly had an agenda but he didn’t know what.

By the time he got back to Roach, he was tense and on-edge, but the policemen just watched him drive off, stone-faced.

For dinner with Regis and Angoulême, Geralt grilled some burgers and hotdogs. Milva had a soot-encrusted barbecue from a distant era that was far from consistent, but it did the job. They had no yard, but there was a patch of gravel between the house and the auto shop with a flowerbed of wilted honeysuckle that Geralt always forgot to water.

Eithné popped out regularly to check on the progress of the grilling. Her long red-gold hair was braided but little curls kept springing free. She was bouncing with excitement at the thought of guests coming to visit. He kept her busy fetching seasonings, plates, and a beer from the fridge.

“Are they almost all done?” she squeaked. “Your friends are gonna be here soon!”

“Yep. Go wash some lettuce,” he told her. “And no hot water or soap this time.”

When he brought the cooked patties into the house, Milva was slicing pickles in the kitchen while Eithné arranged squares of cheese in a circle on a plate.

“Thanks for helping out, guys,” he said. “That cheese looks great, Eith.”

“Well, it’s our house too,” Milva said. “Besides, I don’t wanna eat any later than I have to.”

Geralt’s ears caught the crunch of gravel outside the door; then a knock sounded.

“They’re here!” Eithné squealed. She raced to open the door.

“Hello!” Regis’ voice rang out. “You must be little Eithné.”

“Not little; I’m seven!”

“She’s seven, Uncle,” Angoulême said. “That’s practically old enough to drive.”

“Oh dear, I’m very sorry,” Regis said. “Could you show us around your lovely home, Eithné?”

Eithné led them into the kitchen where they exchanged greetings with Geralt and Milva. “Dinner’s almost done,” Geralt said. “Go ahead and sit down.”

The kitchen table was a bit small for five people but they crowded in. Regis’ knee was pressed against Geralt’s and Eithné was practically in his lap. Their elbows bumped when they reached for different things, so there were plenty of apologies and embarrassed smiles. They kept the conversation focused on safe topics like the burgers, the weather, and Eithné’s school play. Finally, when they’d eaten their fill, Eithné took Angoulême to her room to show her a game and the three adults could speak freely.

“Got hassled by some cops the other day,” Geralt told Regis. “Life would be so much easier if I could work together with law enforcement. Instead I have to sneak around so I don’t mess up their idea of how the world is.”

“Can you see them ever relegating their work to a civilian with swords?” Regis asked with a wry smile.

“Not in this realty,” Milva answered.

“Would you two ever allow me to accompany you on a hunt?” Regis asked. “I’m very curious as to what you do on the job and I could provide assistance if necessary.”

Geralt shook his head. “It’s really dangerous. We both have combat training and we have to use all our skills and attention to deal with the monsters. We can’t be protecting you too.”

“But he could be a big help when we get injured,” Milva argued. “He’s got all the medicines and potions.”

“I do have extensive medical training, especially in terms of unusual venoms and acids,” Regis added.

“I’ll come to you if I get hurt,” Geralt said, “But I can’t put your life in danger. It’s bad enough that I have to worry about Milva getting ripped apart by fleders or something.”

“I can take care of myself,” Milva protested.

“I know you can,” Geralt said. “But there’s Eithné to consider. If anything happened to you, what would I tell her?”

Milva gripped the edge of the table and looked away. “She’s the reason I’m not dead already, many times over. I don’t take stupid risks.”

“Geralt, your concern for both of us is moving,” Regis said, “but we are concerned for you too. That’s what it means to have friends. We want to help each other.”

“So now I’m a friend and not a valued customer?” Geralt said with a raised eyebrow.

“Sorry?” Regis looked at him quizzically; then comprehension dawned and he laughed. “Did my introduction to Dettlaff offend you? He is simply suspicious of all my new acquaintances so I wished to downplay our level of intimacy.”

“Who’s that?” Milva asked.

“A very old friend,” Regis explained. “He came to visit while Geralt was at the shop.”

“He tried to melt me with his glare,” Geralt complained, “like I was cheese in the sun.”

“Well…” Regis seemed to struggle to find the right words. “He sometimes falters in social situations and doesn’t always know how to behave properly. I’m trying to civilize him, in a way. But he truly has a good heart, believe me.”

“Sounds like Geralt is jealous,” Milva teased.

“He has no reason to be,” Regis said earnestly. “We may have known each other a short time, but I have already grown to treasure Geralt’s fierce loyalty, selfless bravery, and blunt sincerity. I admire him completely.”

“Aw, Regis,” Milva crooned with a grin.

Geralt could feel his face heating and he was glad for the mutations that didn’t allow him to blush. “Thanks,” he said gruffly. “You too.”

“Now, Regis, tell me what you like about me,” Milva demanded.

Eithné’s voice barreled down the hallway from her room. “Mom, where is my piggie game?”

“On your desk,” Milva shouted back.

“No, it’s not!”

“Yes, it is! I just saw it there!”

“No, it’s not!”

Milva cursed under her breath and went to the hall.

Geralt felt an awkward silence descend as he kept his face turned away from Regis, listening to Milva argue with Eithné in her room. He got up and started gathering the dishes off the table, so of course Regis also stood to help him.

“Do you want to wash or dry?” Regis said.

“We have a dishwasher,” Geralt said, gesturing to it. “You can rinse and I’ll put them in.”

“Oh, another modern convenience I never adopted,” Regis said. “It’s just simpler to wash everything by hand, especially when you live alone.”

“How long has Angoulême been with you?”

Regis stacked the plates in the sink. “About two years now. She didn’t have anywhere else to go except into worse trouble, so I thought I could make room in my solitary life for another person. We get along.” He rinsed a bowl and handed it to Geralt. “You seem to do very well with Milva’s daughter. I can tell she has great affection for you.”

“Well, she’s pretty special,” Geralt said with a smile.

 “Have you ever met her father?”

“No, Milva doesn’t talk about him. It’s like she had a virgin birth.”

Regis seemed to hesitate. Then he said, “I think he may have had elven blood. The shape of Eithné’s face and the little point of her ears… Does she have extra teeth, do you know?”

“I have no idea,” Geralt said. “Milva mentioned something about her getting braces…but aren’t elves practically extinct?”

“Not completely, and there are many who carry elven blood and can blend among the human population. I suspect young Eithné may be one of them. She is very fortunate. Elven genes carry many advantages.” He rinsed out a bowl and handed it to Geralt.

“How do you know all this?” Geralt asked, setting the dish on the top rack.

“I told you, I’m a scholar with a curious mind.” Regis rinsed crumbs and ketchup off another plate. “I tend to learn everything I can about particular topics, often to fault. I have an accumulated an extensive collection of rare books and scrolls. I’m a fairly solitary individual who spends a lot of time with books and plants, not the typical foster parent, so Angoulême and I are both fortunate to have found someone we can get along with.”

“You’re so nice I’m surprised you don’t have a houseful of runaways and orphans,” Geralt said.

Regis half-smiled. “I’m not so benevolent as you imagine. In fact, I have many faults, but I’d rather not advertise them.”

“Well, you kept them pretty well hidden,” Geralt said, taking a plate from him. “You seem nearly perfect to me.” He bent to put it in the machine and when he straightened again, Regis was looking directly out the window above the sink with a masked expression.

“What is it?” Geralt asked, sensing a tension in him.

Regis didn’t speak. He picked up a glass and rinsed it with too much care. As he offered it to Geralt, his nails brushed the back of Geralt’s fingers and Geralt felt a shiver run up his arm.

“There are things I wish I could say,” Regis whispered. “But…it’s incredibly difficult.”

Geralt took the glass and held it in both hands, searching Regis’ face. “What things?”

Regis turned off the faucet. “Tell me, Geralt. When you are hunting monsters, how do you decide which ones must be killed and which should be spared?”

“I don’t kill sentients who have never harmed anyone. I try to target the ones who have already injured or killed humans.”

“So, if you met a grave hag who had killed in the past, but claimed to be a vegetarian who had taken a vow of peace, would you believe her?”

Geralt shook his head. “Some species just don’t do morality. You wouldn’t tell a hawk to stop hunting mice because it’s hurting poor mice families It’s just their nature. They kill to feed or protect their territory. I’ve never met a grave hag who didn’t.”

“But you don’t hunt hawks,” Regis pointed out. “You accept that killing is a part of their life.”

“Hawks don’t attack humans,” Geralt countered. “I’m no druid, worshipping life in all its forms. Hell, I just ate ground-up cow meat for my dinner. But I kill monsters to protect humans. That’s my job.”

“Have you ever killed a human?”

“Yes, in self-defense a few times, and to protect other people. But it’s not easy to get over that experience.”

Regis looked pensive. “Human life is so short as it is. As a witcher, does your longevity ever affect the way you view other people and their lesser lifespans?”

“I’ve lived nearly a century,” Geralt admitted, “and I can’t help but get bitterer as time goes on. People I knew as a kid are all dead. Lives pass me by as everyone builds homes and families and I’m just drifting on. Feels like there’s less and less point to me actually being here.” He gestured with an open palm to Regis. You’re younger than me, but so much wiser. I think the more experience I get, the dumber I am. After all this time, I still get attached to regular people, even knowing I’ll either watch them die or suffer a violent death myself.”

“That’s not foolish,” Regis said softly. “Well, perhaps it’s imprudent, but it’s a necessary part of existence. You may live for another century more and that stretch of years would be very empty without those attachments. Legend says that mutagens strip witchers of emotion, but how could they serve the purpose of protecting humans if they didn’t care?”

“Our original purpose was to kill monsters for money,” Geralt said. “Protection was secondary.”

“And yet you continue to hunt, even though you’re rarely paid for it.”

Geralt’s mouth twisted. “I’m not good for much else.”

Regis picked up a plate and turned on the faucet again. “You seem to be doing well in Milva’s shop.”

“That’s not… It’s not exactly a calling. It’s not my purpose.”

“You’ve never considered leaving the path and simply settling down?”

“Of course, but it never works out. Even here, I’m just a roommate. This isn’t my family.” Geralt could feel despair and frustration rising inside him. “What’s with the interview, anyway? I thought you had something you needed to tell me.”

“Yes,” Regis said softly. He looked at the wet plate in his hand. “Are you familiar with the prophecies of Nehalia?”

“No.”

“Nehalia was an elven sage who lived almost a thousand years ago. If she was a prolific writer, not much remains of her work. I have a few scrolls translated from the ancient Aen Seidh tongue to Elder Speech, so they are easier to understand, but the words still must be translated to our modern tongue. I hadn’t significant a lot of time with them before, because although Nehalia was considered a reliable seer, her descriptions can be rather vague and opaque, leading many readers to ascribe significant events to them that may or may not be accurate.”

“Nice to have a vague prophecy that you can apply to any situation,” Geralt said.

“Yes,” Regis agreed. “But a few sections stuck out to me, and perhaps it’s just my over-active imagination, but we may be entering a time of great disorder.” He handed the last plate to Geralt and wiped his hands on a dish towel with stiff movements. “What do you know of higher vampires?”

“They can take human form and are really hard to kill,” Geralt said. “I’ve dealt with some pretty deadly alps and once a pair of bruxae nearly did me in. They can flash from one place to another and only silver bombs can stop them long enough for me to get a sword hit.”

“Alps, bruxae, and katakans are quite dangerous, but they can be killed with silver. True higher vampires are more difficult to finish off. In fact, they will always regenerate, given enough time. Only another higher vampire can end the life of one of its fellows. I’m sorry to say that if you ever have cut one down with your sword, it has probably recovered or is knitting itself together as we speak.”

“That’s comforting,” Geralt growled. “Does this prophecy have something to do with them?”

“Yes. There is an extremely old vampire only known as the Unseen Elder. He’s been in hiding for thousands of years. I wasn’t even sure he still existed. But, as I’ve said, higher vampires simply don’t die easily. If anything, they grow in power and influence as they age. But he’s been isolated for so long, he is more animal than sentient being. According to my interpretation of the prophecy, he is due to emerge and set a new age into motion. Beasts of claws and scales and poison will flock to him. And his fellow vampires will descend on the land, spilling rivers of blood to rule the kingdom of the sun.”

“Sounds peachy. What makes you think it’s referring to this time and place?” Geralt asked.

“The sudden influx of monsters to Toussaint—which is the very place higher vampires first entered this plane of existence, during the conjunction of the spheres. And it’s also the supposed hiding place of the Unseen Elder.” Regis paused and wandered back to the table, gripping the back of a chair with both hands. “There is a mention of a chosen one, a white wolf who will fight to stop the rise of the Unseen ELder. Only it will halt the apocalypse.”

“And you think that’s me, because I have white hair and a wolf medallion?” Geralt said, leaning back against the sink and crossing his arms over his chest. “There are dozens of shitty gamers, skateboarders, and MMA fighters who call themselves ‘The White Wolf.’ And what’s with this ‘chosen one’ bullshit? This isn’t a fucking sci-fi movie.”

Regis smiled wryly. “You’re right. I could very well be mistaken. In fact, I truly hope that I am.”

Milva entered the kitchen with a yawn. “What are you guys talking about?”

“Vampires and monsters and the end of the world,” Geralt said. “Apparently I’m the chosen one.”

“Sweet,” Milva said. “Ok, it’s your guys’ turn to play Pen the Piggies with Eith and Angoulême. I need a beer.”

That was how Geralt and Regis found themselves crouching over a gameboard for half an hour, trying to herd plastic pigs into an enclosure with the opposite sides of magnets. It was harder than it looked. Eithne and Angouleme had become experts at aiming the magnets but Geralt and Regis struggled to get the pigs to move in a straight line. Geralt had to bite back a few choice curses when the piggie he was herding slid right off the gameboard.

After Eithné went to bed, they discussed the current situation with Milva and Angoulême. Regis brought up the prophecy and Geralt outlined the job he’d gotten from Emhyr. Unsurprisingly, Milva didn’t have a lot of faith in prophecies and didn’t see any point in tracking down someone who didn’t want to be found.

“If anything, you should find her just to tell her what a dick her dad is,” she concluded.

“My thoughts exactly,” Angoulême agreed. “And who believes in prophecies? Your life is what you make it.”

“Then there must be another explanation for the current monster situation,” Regis said. “I’ll consult with some scholarly colleagues and try to find out what it may be.”

“But…” Angoulême trailed off, “If this is a real, legit prophecy, what signs should we be looking for?”

“Increased monster activity, increased vampire sightings, earthquakes, floods, and fires. The usual signs of an apocalypse,” Regis said. “Also, the text mentions a kind of bird, I think. A bird will lead the chosen one to his fate.”

“Look out for birds, Geralt,” Milva said with a chuckle. “They’ll either lead you to your fate or an overflowing trash can.”

Angoulême cocked her head. “BTW, on the subject of vampire-raising prophecies, did anybody hear about that high school kid who got drained of blood and ripped up?” she asked casually. “I thought nah, can’t be a vampire, just some weird sex cult thing. But maybe it is a dracula after all? I dunno, it was on my feed yesterday.”

And that’s how Geralt found himself skulking around the echoing halls of a dark high school, looking for garkains, and soon got wrapped up in saving a clueless cop.

The next morning, he woke in the cot in Regis’ loft, bleary-eyed and hurting. Angoulême was curled up on the mattress in the corner, snoring softly. He touched the bandage on the back of his neck—a little crusty but dry. The bathroom in Regis’ house didn’t have a mirror, so he couldn’t see exactly how shitty he looked, but he could guess. He tried to smooth his hair down with his fingers, and tied it back.

Downstairs, Regis was cooking something on the stove that smelled of cinnamon and nutmeg. It was some kind of fluffy pancake with a name that Regis pronounced with a foreign accent and Geralt immediately forgot. Regis squeezed lemon juice over it and sprinkled it with powdered sugar.

Geralt dug in, cutting and shoving pieces into his mouth. Lemony sweetness burst over his taste buds. Regis just watched him with an expression of fond amusement. “How’s your neck?” he asked.

“Torn up,” Geralt said, “but not bleeding anymore, thanks to you. Should be mostly healed in a couple days.”

“Can I stop by and change the bandage later?”

“I’ll be at the shop all day. Don’t worry about it. Between me and Milva we’ll figure it out.”

“Let me see how it looks.” Regis moved behind him. The points of his nails brushed Geralt’s skin as he lifted his ponytail. “It appears that it’s starting to scab. I’ll come by in the afternoon and check it again for inflammation and infection. Try not to keep it dry, if you can.”

“I guess I’ll have to cancel that wet t-shirt contest I was gonna take part in,” Geralt quipped.

“Wet t-shirt contest?” Regis looked puzzled. “What are the criteria for winning that? Are you judged by the volume of water your shirt can hold?”

Geralt snorted, trying hold back his laugh. “Never mind, Regis.”

That afternoon at the shop, sweating in the stuffy office, Geralt scrolled through his emails. Milva had confined him to the desk for the day, grumbling that she needed him back in action so he’d better fucking heal fast. He had received a handful of requests from the website that Angoulême had created but they didn’t look promising. One offered a reward for exorcising a demon from a hamster. Another enquired if he could create love potions or spells. And the one that asked him to hunt down an evil twin just made him wince. But there one message from a vineyard manager asked for an investigation of a possibly haunted wine cellar. Geralt had cleared enough giant centipedes from the caves of Toussaint to wonder if this was a similar case. And it was at the Coronata Vineyard, where Cirilla had been sighted. He scrolled through the details: strange noises, vibrations, flashes of light…

A scratch of shoes on pavement. A shadow through the window on the door brought him to attention just as the knob turned. In walked Geralt’s least favorite member of the Beauclair PD.

Cahir stopped just inside the door and gave him a wary look. “Please don’t do that thing you did to me again.”

“Don’t piss me off and I won’t.” Geralt leaned back in his chair and surveyed the officer.

“I just came to talk,” Cahir said holding up both hands in a placating gesture. “No questioning, no arrests. I just need to know what the hell is going on.”

The door creaked behind him and Cahir jumped back, hand immediately going to his weapon. Milva came in, looked at Cahir, looked at Geralt. When Geralt gave her a little nod, she crossed her arms over her chest and glared at the cop.

“You’re the one Geralt got hurt rescuing,” she said in a low growl stalking toward him. “Did you come ‘round so he can save your ass again?”

Cahir stared at her wide-eyed. “No, ma’am. I just… I wanted some clarity about the incident last night, that’s all.”

“This is my business partner, Milva,” Geralt said in a belated introduction.

“And partner in crime, apparently,” Milva said darkly. “Is that why you’re here, pig? You wanna bump up your arrest record?”

“No,” Cahir said vehemently, holding up his hands again. “I’m not here on business. Please try to understand. I just got attacked by vampires that I didn’t know even existed and this guy cut them up with a sword and then paralyzed me somehow…”

“Stunned,” Geralt said, “Not paralyzed. And I only did that when you wouldn’t leave me alone.”

“Fine,” Cahir said impatiently, “Just please clue me into what the hell is going on. I couldn’t sleep last night. I feel like I’m in a waking nightmare. I need to know the extent of this and what I can do to feel safe again.”

“Stay out of our way, for one,” Geralt said. “We’re trying to fight these things and we can’t do it when you’re skulking around.”

“Help us,” Milva said.

Surprised, Geralt swiveled to look at her. She was sizing Cahir up with her cool gray eyes. “We need access to police records and crime scenes. We need to know when suspicious killings happen. And we need people to take our warnings seriously when monsters are in the area.”

Cahir’s mouth fell open.

“Milva,” Geralt said in a warning tone. “We can’t trust him.”

“Can we trust you?” Milva said, eye-to-eye with Cahir. “Are you gonna fuck us over, cop?”

Cahir met her gaze, tense but unyielding. “You can trust me. As long as you’re not hurting anyone, I’m on your side.” He looked to Geralt. “I never want to feel as hopeless and horrified as I did last night. If I can provide any assistance in destroying those things, I will.”

The door jangled for a third time and Regis peeked in, carrying his medical bag. “Hello?” He glanced uncertainly between the other three occupants of the office. “I just came to check Geralt’s wound.” His eyes settled on Cahir with unbridled curiosity. “Excuse me, are you the young officer I’ve heard so much about?”

“Mr. Studly Policeman wants to join our gang,” Milva said. “Whatdaya think, Regis? Would he be a good addition?”

Regis looked taken aback. He pursed his lips. “It could be very useful to have a contact in law enforcement. If you know him to be upright and dependable, we should certainly accept him as an ally.”

“That’s exactly what we don’t know!” Geralt protested. “Some snooty Nilfgaadian cop gets scared of vampires and we’re supposed to welcome him into the fold and tell him everything we know?”

“I’m Vicovarian, not Nilfgaardian,” Cahir said hotly.

“Oh, well in that case…” Geralt said dramatically.

“Let’s give him a chance to prove himself,” Milva asserted. “What’s your name, anyway, pig?”

“Cahir.” He said tightly. “Over the past year, I’ve noticed there were some weird cases coming in to the precinct. It’s often hard to explain how the victims were killed. I can show you one, if you want to take a look.”

“It may be worth investigating,” Regis said. “However, Geralt needs a little time to recover from his injury before he takes on any active field work.” He saw Geralt start to open his mouth to voice a protest and cut him off. “I said a little time, Geralt. I’m sure my salves and your healing abilities will make the recovery period short.”

“Healing abilities?” Cahir said, forehead furrowing. “Are you…?”

“Yeah, I’m fucking Nosferatu,” Geralt growled.

“He’s a witcher,” Milva said, ignoring Geralt’s outraged glare. “They’re mutants who hunt monsters, basically.”

“Oh…I see,” Cahir said a little weakly. “I suppose I have a lot to learn.”

Milva clapped a hand onto his shoulder. “Strap in, buddy.”

Chapter Text

A few days later, when Geralt’s wound had scabbed over and tightened the skin around it, Milva and Regis approved him for field work again. Cahir had the morning off, so he met them at the house with his laptop and gear for their first police case.

As they looked through the case files he’d selected as suspicious, a place name caught Geralt’s eye. “What’s this one at the Coronata vineyard?”

“Technically it was just outside the vineyard, a little down the road,” Cahir said, scanning the file. “’Unidentified burnt body found in field three days ago. We came to the conclusion that someone did it to destroy evidence, but there were no signs of a second person at the scene, and it appeared the body had been burned alive at the spot, but there were no traces of accelerant found. What might burn a person?”

“It could be an ifrit or a slyzard or fire elemental,” Geralt said. “Or a troll who over-cooked its dinner. Only one way to find out.”

Milva strapped a handgun into the holster on her hip. “If this doesn’t pan out, we can look for more drowners on the south side of the lake.” She slung her field bag over her shoulder.

Geralt grabbed his own bag full of oils and potions. “While we’re there, I’d like to talk to the vineyard manager about a job he emailed me. Maybe they’re not connected, but there’ve been too many weird coincidences to ignore.”

“The haunted wine cellar?” Milva said with a smirk. “You think a slyzard is holed up there?”

“I think something or someone was holed up there.”

About a forty-minute drive from the city, Coronata Vineyard covered a good portion of the northeastern hills outside Beauclair. Roach rolled through endless slopes lined with vine-covered trellises. At the end of the road, the stone arch of the vineyard appeared, draped in clematis flowers. Geralt parked outside the giftshop and asked for the vineyard manager.

After a long tromp between equipment sheds, they found the manager holding a huge mug and talking loudly to someone on his phone about fungicides. He scowled as they approached and quickly ended the call. “Hey there, you all haven’t been wearing those boots in other vineyards, have you?”

Geralt blinked. “No…”

“Vine rot going around. If you track it here, I’ll sue you all.”

“Are you Rodrick Hindlesford?” Milva asked. “We’re here about the email you sent regarding the strange noises and lights in your wine cellar.”

The manager squinted at her. “You’re Geralt?”

“I’m Geralt,” Geralt said, annoyed. “These are my associates. Extraordinary solutions for unusual situations…or whatever that tagline was. You wanted me to check out the creature in your cellar.”

“Oh that,” Rodrick flapped his free hand. “You really should have called first. As it turns out, it was just some homeless person or a bunch of teens hanging out there. I found empty food wrappers, water bottles, and bloody bandages behind a rack of barrels. And someone made a little nest there with a pile of blankets.”

“It can’t be common to get drifters here so far outside the city,” Cahir said. “And I can’t imagine there are many teens out here in the hills either.”

 “There are some kids who live here in the trailers with their families,” Rodrick explained. “We need a lot of workers come harvest time. And you’d never believe how many psychos come wandering through the trellises. They seem to think that just because the rows are empty, they can walk wherever they like.”

“Yeah?” Geralt said. “Like who?”

“You know, the druid types, the hippies. Just the other night I saw a couple of women strolling up the road with a green lantern. Long skirts and long hair. Looked like they’d walked out of a painting. I thought I might be dreaming because they just seemed to fade away. But I saw footprints in the dirt the next day. Ghosts and dreams don’t leave prints.”

“When was this?” Cahir asked sharply.

“About a week ago, I guess.” The manager said. “I didn’t exactly write it down in my diary, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“And they were carrying a green lantern?” Geralt said. “Do you think it was that source of the light flashes that you mentioned in the email?”

The manager shrugged. “Yup, probably. I’m sorry you all made the trip out here. Like I said, you shoulda called first.”

“Hmm,” Geralt said.

“Thanks for your time,” Cahir said. “We came this way for another purpose, actually. Did you hear or see anything two nights ago? A man was burned near here.”

The manager shook his head. “Police already grilled me about that. Seems like the cops are coming up here every other week now, asking about someone who’s been killed.”

“There were other deaths?” Cahir asked.

“Oh, just the one girl. But it was miles from here, down the road from the trailers. Some big dog attacked her.”

“Dangerous place,” Milva muttered.

“Thank you for your time,” Cahir said firmly. “We’ll contact you if we have any more questions.”

Geralt could think of a few more questions, but there was a hard look in Cahir’s eyes, so he shut his mouth and followed Cahir and Milva back to Roach.

“Not gonna ask him anything else about a mauled girl?” Milva complained as they got in the car.

“I know the case,” Cahir said. “A little over a week ago, a girl from one of the families that live here on the vineyard was found in the middle of the road. Her throat was torn out. We blamed wild animals, of course. It wasn’t my case so I didn’t look closely at it, but I definitely will now.”

“Let’s check out the burned body first,” Geralt suggested. “If the two are connected, we need to get all the evidence together.”

They found the sad little field just outside the vineyard fences, a patch of grass lined on one side with a drooping lilac hedge. Rain had flattened the long brown grass and it was full of footprints, not even closed off with crime scene tape. Cahir pointed them to the burned hollow in the grass roughly the size of a human body. Geralt knelt down, took a pinch of charred grass and rolled it between his fingers, sniffing deeply. No scent of gasoline. No signs of blood underneath the burnt grass. He studied the tracks around the burned area.

“The victim was found here Sunday morning,” Cahir said. “It seems to be a man in his early to mid-twenties. Forensics thinks the burning took place early Saturday evening between five and seven. There was no sign of any other trauma. We’re looking to match his dental records to a couple missing people right now.”

“More burns over here,” Milva said.

Geralt stood and went to her. Faint scorch marks darkened the grass in an arc of intermittent streaks. He followed the traces and saw they formed a large, incomplete circle. Moving to the center, Geralt squatted and dug under the flattened grass carefully.

“What are you looking for?” Cahir asked, looking confused.

“I’m not sure,” Geralt said. “A trinket, a memento, something you can connect to.” He found only damp earth and dead weeds. “What time is it now?”

“Around nine,” Cahir said. “Why?”

“A cloudy morning,” Geralt murmured. “A noonwraith could still appear though. You’d better keep your distance.”

Milva backed away slowly. “I’m guessing noonwraiths appear around noon?”

“Not always. As long as it’s daylight, you can encounter them.”

She tapped her fingers against her holster. “Aren’t these the ghosts of scorned women?”

“Sometimes. Traditionally young women who died violently with a lot of anger or sadness. You know how ghosts are with unfinished business.”

Cahir looked nervously between them. “Do you think this…ghost knew the victim?”

“Perhaps,” Geralt said. “But they also just attack anyone who comes into their territory.”

Milva raised her eyebrows. “So, they burn random people? What’s with the non-specific punishment?”

“They’re made of pure rage at this point, no reasoning with a wraith,” Geralt said, still scraping at the grass. “I once tried convincing a noonwraith that she was dead, but she just attacked me.”

“Just like a woman? Is that what you wanted to say?” Milva teased. “We’re all irrational messes, PMSing all the time?”

Geralt felt something hard under his fingertips. He gingerly plucked it from its nest of grass and dirt and picked bits of vegetation off it. Milva unscrewed her water bottle and handed it to him so he could rinse off the mud.

“What is it?” Cahir asked.

“It’s just a rock,” she said, clearly disappointed by the little gray pebble.

“But look at the shape,” Geralt said. “Doesn’t it look like a heart?”

“Maybe if you want it to.” Milva cocked her head and squinted. “How do we know it’s not just a random piece of gravel?”

“Normally, I’d burn the object of emotional attachment and see if the wraith appears,” Geralt said, “but I don’t know if it will work with a stone.” He gestured to Cahir. “Can you look up the case file for the girl who was killed near here?”

“Sure, I’ll see if I can get a signal,” Cahir said.

They went back to the car and snacked on some granola bars while Cahir searched through the cases on his tablet.

“There it is,” Cahir said. “A sixteen-year-old girl named Hana Mertle. It was ten days ago. She was lying on her back in the middle of the road only a five-minute walk from her home, a trailer in the section for the vineyard employees.”

Geralt nodded. “Near here?”

“About two miles away. Does it have to be the same place?”

“No, the location of the object is more important. She’s tied to this spot because of the thing here, not because she died here, although it’s sometimes the same place.”

Milva swallowed the last bite of her granola bar and folded up the wrapper. She looked at the little heart-shaped rock sitting on Roach’s bumper. “What did the rock mean to her?”

Geralt touched it with the tip of his finger. “Who knows? A gift from a lover? A totem for making wishes? Humans find signs in everything. Imagine you’re walking along and you see something that has a significant shape for you. You might pick it up and decide it’s fate or destiny or whatever. She could have put a lot of feelings into this.”

“Can we crush it? I think I have a mallet in my tool kit.”

Geralt tapped a fingernail against the rough surface of the rock. “We can try. Just put on your protective glasses first.”

“Sure thing, Dad,” Milva said, opening Roach’s back end.

The rock didn’t crush easily. Milva’s blows left it gritty but mostly intact. Geralt had to use his witcher strength to swing the mallet hard enough to break it apart. It left a sizable dent in the end of the mallet too.

Geralt gathered some kindling and a little brick of fire-starter from his kit. Cahir watched intently and jumped back a little with Geralt used Igni to light the fire. “Sorry,” Geralt muttered. The fire flared up quickly and was soon devouring the kindling with crackling ease.

“We’re gonna feel really dumb if this is just a random pebble you found in the grass,” Milva said with a sigh. “Can’t we just kill this ghost? Do we really need to burn the rock?”

“We can banish the wraith temporarily with silver,” Geralt said. “But we have to burn the object if we want her gone for good.”

“Do silver bullets even work on wraiths?” Milva asked. “I can never tell if I’m actually helping you when we fight ghosty things.”

“With noonwraiths and nightwraiths, I have to trap them with Yrden before silver has any effect,” Geralt said, spreading wraith oil on his sword. “After she comes into the trap, feel free to shoot, but keep your distance. They don’t play around.”

“Roger that,” Milva handed Cahir a box of silver bullets from her bag. “Make yourself useful, Officer Studly. You’re not just here to look pretty.”

Cahir swallowed hard and started emptying out his revolver and replacing the bullets in it.

Geralt waited until they were both loaded and ready, some distance from the ring of burnt grass. Then he sprinkled the fragments of rock into the fire and rose slowly, watching carefully for the eerie glow that usually heralded a wraith’s appearance. After several moments of nothing, he was ready to accept that he’d gotten the wrong object after all.

He sheathed his sword and turned to Milva and Cahir, about to speak, saw Milva’s bored expression suddenly vanish as her eyes widened and her mouth opened.

“Geralt!”

He dodged to the left without thinking, rolling on the wet ground. The otherworldly roar and rush of air over his back told him he’d made the right decision. As he sprang to his feet, his hand automatically went to draw his silver. But his blade passed through the green glow of the wraith like deep water.

Fuck. She swiped at him again and he leaped back to avoid her blow. A crackle of heat followed her movements through the air. Geralt formed the sign for Yrden and threw it to the earth. Purple points of light sprang up around him. They glowed on the wraith’s distorted features, her empty eyes and huge tongue lolling out of a jawless skull. Gunshots boomed, punched bullets into the wraith’s head and body, pushing her back.

Geralt sprinted and swung hard, heard his sword connect with the wraith this time, a solid hit, heard her garbled scream. The blasting guns again peppered her with bullets. The semi-transparent form shuddered and reeled back. “Going in!” Geralt shouted so Milva and Cahir wouldn’t fire again and hit him by mistake. He landed a couple more blows before the wraith backed out of the Yrden trap and faded in a cloud of black smoke.

Geralt immediately rolled away, hoping to draw her back into the circle. But he heard the whoosh of the wraith materializing behind him, at his right outside the lights.

“No!” he shouted, turning. The wraith burst into existence right in front of Milva, launching a series of quick strikes. Milva was agile enough to dodge the first one, but the wraith’s reach was long and she knocked Milva to the ground, shrieking. Cahir jumped forward and pulled Milva to the side, covering her with his body.

Geralt bounded to them and cut the wraith with a flurry of fast blows, heard the high-pitched wail and saw the flash of white light as she winked out of the world.

Cahir lifted off Milva carefully, scanning for danger. The back of his uniform jacket was burnt through, but the bullet-proof vest beneath was intact, though blackened. Milva sat up and bit her lip, face tight with pain. Geralt saw the fabric of her own jacket had melted in a large spot over her upper arm, revealing reddened skin beneath.

“How come I’m always the one who gets hurt?” she complained. She plucked at the melted material and hissed.

“Stay there,” Geralt said. He ran to the car and pulled out his first aid kit, newly stocked from Regis’ supplies.

When he returned to Milva, Cahir was crouched over her, scowling. “She needs a medic,” he said. “This could get infected.”

“Hell no,” Milva protested. “The deductible on my health insurance is insane. Regis’ good-good salve works for me.”

“You got it,” Geralt said. He pulled out his knife and swiftly cut the sleeve off her jacket, baring her arm. Then he wiped his hands with disinfectant before unscrewing the little jar of burn cream and applying in to her wound.

Milva closed her eyes and exhaled through her nose. Cahir looked scared and helpless.

After Geralt had covered it with the second skin burn bandage, he tried to help her to her feet but she batted his hand away. “This is nothing,” she said. “Compared to that crispy corpse, I got off easy today.” She stood and looked at Cahir. “Nice shooting, Officer Studly. But next time you decide to tackle me, you’d better have an awful good reason. I know you’re trained to protect civilians, but I can take care of myself.”

Cahir frowned. “That ghost would have burned your face off if I hadn’t jumped in.”

“Yeah, and it would have toasted you like crème brule if Geralt hadn’t finished it off.” She thrust her chin up in a fierce stance. “Don’t even think about trying to sacrifice yourself for me. No one is going to be impressed.”

“All right, you two,” Geralt said, “get in the car. Job’s done. Let’s go to Regis so he can check out Milva and we can all go home.”

As they walked back to Roach, Geralt saw a huge black raven perched on the stone wall by the neighboring vineyard. It regarded him steadily with shining, clever eyes. Yen, Geralt thought. She had a crystal skull of a raven that she used to summon and control a creature of pure magic. Stop following me, he thought at the bird. I’m not yours anymore. I’ll do your damn job when I feel like it.

He thought of the manila envelope lying in a stack of various papers in the corner of his attic. He’d get to in time, or he wouldn’t. If Cirilla of Nilfgaard had managed to take care of herself and avoid her father for this long, she could probably keep it up for a while more.

Waiting at Herbs and Remedies, while Regis checked Milva’s burn, Geralt listened to a voicemail on his phone from Dandelion. “Geralt, I’m a having a farewell party! Tonight, at The Silver: an epic celebration of debauchery. Bring Milva and Regis. Trick them if you must.”

Geralt sighed and watched Cahir poke at the jars on the shelves intently. Angoulême was also watching Cahir from her perch, sneaking looks from above her phone from time to time. Geralt could smell trouble brewing and he didn’t like it.

Regis smoothed down the edges of the bandage on Milva’s arm. “You did well, Geralt. Milva is young and in good health; I’m sure she’ll heal quickly.”

“You’ll have a cool scar,” Geralt said. “You’ll look more badass than ever.”

“Well, I’ll need a few more before I catch up to your collection,” Milva said, rotating her arm. She frowned. “I know we probably saved a bunch of people by banishing that noonwraith, but I can’t help thinking I’d rather have caught the person or thing who killed her. Would it be too much to hope that the burnt body was her killer?”

“It’s unlikely, but not impossible,” Geralt conceded. “If he knew her and came back to that spot because it had emotional significance, she could have gotten him.”

“I’d rather believe that than an innocent girl is killed and starts killing innocents,” Milva said. “Somebody should pay.”

“The world isn’t that neat,” Geralt said. “People don’t always get what they deserve.”

“You don’t have to tell me that,” Milva said darkly.

“Once we get a match on the dental records, we’ll have more information,” Cahir said. “But these kinds of cold cases often go unsolved.”

“Send me the coroner’s report on Hana Mertle, if you can get it,” Geralt said. “Maybe I can pick out some clues.”

“I’ll send you all the files I can find,” Cahir promised him.

Geralt turned to Regis who was leaning against the bar. “Any chance that bird in the prophecy was a raven? There’s been one following me around lately.”

Regis’ shoulders shifted back. “I’m not sure. I’m still waiting on a response from some acquaintances in Kovir and Poviss asking for their opinion of my translation and containing specific questions about possible interpretations.”

“Okay,” Geralt said, blinking against the shaft of light from the window. What else did he need to remember? “Angoulême, can you watch Eithné tonight, if me and Milva go out?”

She shrugged. “Sure, I’m gonna teach her Gwent. She’ll be my star protégé and buy me a house when she’s rich and famous.”

Milva rubbed the skin on her arm below her burn. “Where are we going?”

“Dandelion’s party at The Silver. Regis is invited too.”

“Not me?” Angoulême said, petulant.

“Are you even old enough to drink?”

She smirked. “I have an ID that says I am.”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “Just focus on Eithné for now. She’s not going to become a Gwent champion on her own.”

Cahir shuffled his feet. “Is this party another job?”

“Not as far as I know,” Geralt said. “You can come, if you want. Might as well meet everyone in our little circle and get some free alcohol.” He was feeling a little warmer toward Cahir after his willingness to shield Milva from the wraith.

“It’s at the Silver?” Cahir said. “I thought it was closed after the murders.”

Angoulême made a dismissive gesture. “That was weeks ago. If they had to close down every place in this town where someone was killed, there’d be nowhere to go.”

“I’d feel weird showing up for your friend’s private party,” Cahir said. “Also, I have a ton of paperwork to do back at the precinct. Just be careful there.”

Geralt nodded and watched Cahir leave the shop. There was a huge blistered black spot on the back of his vest where the wraith had burned him. He’s tougher than he looks, Geralt thought with grudging approval.

“Okay, dibs on the hot cop,” Angoulême said.

“What?” Milva sputtered, looking furious. “You don’t even know him.”

“Oh, Aunty,” Angoulême drawled, “You could have just told me you were interested. Wanna flip a coin for him?”

It was a good thing Milva was injured, Geralt thought. She looked ready to slap the phone out of Angoulême’s hand. “I’m not your Aunty,” she said, nostrils flaring. “I’m like five years older than you at the most.”

Geralt thought, More like ten. But it didn’t seem wise to say that.

“All right,” Regis said. “Angoulême, we can work on more appropriate terms of endearment later. I expect Geralt and Milva need to rest and recover before the event tonight.”

True to his word, Cahir sent the case file for the murder of Hana Mertle. Geralt opened his shitty laptop and read it carefully, sitting in the armchair across from Eithné as she watched her afternoon cartoons on the couch. Her giggles and the sound effects from the programs were a jarring contrast to the grisly descriptions in the file.

Hana had been found on the side of the road. The position of her body and the tracks in the grass indicated she had been running when she was pulled down with great force. Her throat had been ripped out by powerful jaws. But she was not drained of blood. There were no other signs of an animal and the saliva in the wound wasn’t identifiable. So, it must be a monster that was light on its feet, no ghoul. Maybe a barghest. Or a vampire in a hurry.

More puzzling was the second set of footprints running parallel to Hana’s. They never crossed her tracks and disappeared just ahead of where she had fallen. Drops of blood were found on the grass there, indicating the second person was attacked too, but they had disappeared without a trace. Geralt sighed deeply, wishing he could have had a chance to investigate the scene for himself.

Cahir sent a message that they had still not matched the dental records of the burned victim to any particular person, but the earring that had melted to the side of jaw was consistent with the description of a vineyard employee.

Geralt closed his laptop and sat back. He didn’t like playing detective. From experience, he knew trails often ran cold and there wasn’t always a handy note lying around near dead bodies, explaining everything that had taken place up to that point. But it was still frustrating to be on this side, dealing with the consequences without knowing why.

He leaned against the worn backrest of the chair, closed his eyes, filtered out the sound of the goofy music on the TV, and slipped into meditation. It would be nice to have a fun, carefree night at Dandelion’s party with absolutely no monsters or mayhem to be found.

She put on a burst of speed, trying to draw the monsters away from Hana. But even as she veered away, she heard a scream. Her head whipped around, and the bruxa nearly had her. Claws raked over her ribs, over the still-healing wounds from their last attack. Fangs went for her throat and she twisted away. She caught a glimpse of Hana on the ground, a katakan leaning over her.

She spun and ducked to avoid grasping claws. She kicked the bruxa hard, sending her tumbling backwards. Unsheathing her sword, she turned to Hana, but the katakan kneeling over Hana grinned up at her with a face smeared in blood, and she knew it was too late. She sucked back a sob and swung her sword at the bruxa, but it simply faded into a dark smog. Her wound dripped hot, wet blood down her side. She let out a scream of helpless rage. Thick tears ran down her face. Then unearthly green light filled her vision and she blinked out of the world.

Chapter Text

Geralt opened his eyes, blinking hard. His head ached. He never dreamed during meditation and never had such intense, vivid dreams, even when sleeping. Already the details were starting to fade, but he could feel the phantom ache of the gash on his side and the deep sorrow of watching an innocent die. Was that really how Hana died or had his faulty brain decided to make up a story?

On the way to the club, he talked to Milva about it, and she summed up the possibilities economically: “Either you have a psychic connection to the person who was with Hana, or your stress is fucking with your head. Next time maybe don’t fall asleep reading crime scene reports.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Geralt admitted.

When their cab dropped them off at the Silver, Geralt was a little surprised to see Regis waiting there. A part of him had wondered if the herbalist would even be interested in something like this. Regis looked remarkably urbane in a navy-blue double-breasted jacket with slim black slacks, all tailored to fit him perfectly. His hair was smoothed back away from his face, the fly-away gray wings folded back into the rest of his wavy mane. With his intelligent dark eyes, noble aquiline nose, and widow’s peak, he looked like a stylish professor out to have deep discussions about social structures while drinking whiskey sours.

He smiled, seeing Geralt and Milva approach the club’s entrance. “I didn’t feel quite confident to go in on my one, despite Dandelion’s invitation. There are quite a few influential people arriving.” He scanned the two of them. “You both look quite nice tonight.”

Geralt hadn’t wanted to take the time to get all dressed up. Anyway, the only formal wear he had was given to him by Yen for special events. He decided on a sand-colored henley over dark jeans. He had a knife strapped under his sleeve for emergencies.

Milva had on her typical leggings and long top, although this one was a little fancier than what she usually wore—patterned with spangled waves of indigo and gold. The loose cardigan over it covered the bandage on her arm also served to hide the gun on her hip.

They gave their names to the bouncer and entered The Silver together, reflections warped in the chrome exterior. For a moment, Geralt thought Regis hadn’t followed them, but when he glanced behind, the other man was there, just a little way back. The music was louder than the last time Geralt was there, and there were more people, but it was a different crowd from the drunk college kids of a Monday night. These were people with money. You could see it in their rippling dresses and sleek suits.

“I need a drink,” Milva said, making a beeline for the first bar.

“Are you having anything tonight?” Geralt asked Regis. “I feel like I owe you a drink after all the doctoring you’ve been doing for us.”

Regis nodded. “They have excellent ginger beer here. Surprisingly fresh.”

“You’ve been here before?” Geralt asked, surprised.

“Oh yes,” Regis said. “Dettlaff’s companion Rhena performs here sometimes. She is a DJ. That’s an acronym for ‘disc jockey,’” he explained with such an air of earnest confidence that Geralt couldn’t even smother his laugh.

“What?” Regis asked, puzzled.

“Oh Regis, I really do love you,” Geralt said warmly, full of amusement.

Regis’ startled and alarmed expression made Geralt want to laugh again. “Not like that,” he said. “I just meant you’re very charming and funny. Um…and certainly good-looking. Just not my type.” It was true, but somehow sounded off when he said it.

“Of course,” Regis said, looking more composed. “You prefer conventionally attractive partners with the appearance of youth.”

“Well, doesn’t everyone?” Geralt said with a shrug.

“Not your partners,” Regis countered. “No one could call you youthful or conventionally attractive. Yet your unusual attributes don’t seem to hamper your sexual success rate.”

“Hmm, guess you got a point there,” Geralt admitted, feeling eyes on him from across the room.

Milva returned with a tall, pale glass of beer. “Drinks are free. Are you guys gonna get anything or are you planning to waste this opportunity?”

“Two ginger beers,” Geralt said. “I’ll be right back. You look around for Dandelion. He’ll probably be the most flashily dressed person in the place.”

When they all had drinks in hand, they wandered around the clusters of people in conversation. No one was drunk enough to try dancing just yet. They soon spotted Dandelion standing at a wine-bottle-filled table on the second level surrounded by beautiful people. Even Geralt recognized a few faces: a local news reporter, a B-list actor, and a familiar brunette model with sharp eyes and a plump mouth. Next to Dandelion, seated a little back and looking regal and aloof in an emerald green sheath dress sat Governor Anna Henrietta herself. Chestnut waves of silky hair spilled from the jeweled clip on the back of her head. At her elbow sat an equally beautiful blond woman in a long-sleeved, filmy ivory top and tight skirt.

Dandelion spotted them and crowed with delight. “Geralt, Milva, and Regis! Three people who know the value of a good drink. Come here! This wine is simply superb!” He was already flushed and jovial. His salmon pink silk shirt was embroidered with tiny running panthers in black and blue thread. The watch on his wrist glittered with gem stones as he raised a glass.

“We’ve got drinks,” Geralt said as they moved to talk to Dandelion. “We’ll try the wine later.”

“Oh Geralt, you haven’t lived until you’ve tasted Sangreal,” Dandelion declared. “The governor herself brought it from her cellars. You can’t buy this stuff.”

Anna Henrietta nodded graciously. “It is my pleasure, the very least I can do after all that Dandelion has done for us. Not everyone will tour in Beauclair, and even fewer famous musicians would consent to multiple performances at a private residence. He has filled our days with songs and tales.”

“Yeah,” Geralt agreed. “It’s been a couple months now…What happened to the other stops on your tour?”

“I fulfilled all my engagements,” Dandelion said with a flourish of his free hand. “But I soon found that I’d left my heart in Toussaint and was compelled to return.” The besotted look that he gave Anna Henrietta made Geralt feel briefly ill.

“That’s wonderful,” Regis said. “We’re glad that you are here for the foreseeable future, but wasn’t this meant to be your going-away party?”

“Not away from here,” Dandelion explained. “I’ve simply decided to take a break from touring and recording to spend some time exploring my muse and apply fresh influences to my art. I expect my fans will be heartbroken, but it can’t be helped.”

“So, it’s a hiatus party?” Milva asked with a puzzled look.

“Alas, yes. A temporary retirement from show business, at least.”

“He shall return with even better work,” the governor declared firmly.

“But I’m so glad you came, because we have a possible job for you three,” Dandelion said. “Our dear friend Vivienne has been suffering from an unusual problem. We thought you might be the one to solve it.”

Geralt tamped down on the rush of indignation that Dandelion had blabbed about them to his latest girlfriend. I’m trying to run a business, he reminded himself. “What’s is it?” he asked.

The blond woman who had previously looked distracted and uninvolved in the conversation stood stiffly. “I’m Vivienne de Tabris,” she said, “Thank you for meeting with us.”

“Let’s move to a more private place,” Anna Henrietta said. They followed her to a VIP room where the music was somewhat muffled by the glass walls. “Vivienne suffers from horrible nightmares,” Anna Henrietta said, taking a seat on the long couch and crossing one shapely leg over the other. “She has for many years, but now it has progressed to waking horrors and voices in her head.”

“Have you spoken to a doctor and a mental health professional?” Regis asked. “We can’t treat psychosis the same as a curse.”

“I’ve had multiple exams and been prescribed several medications,” Vivienne said. Up close, Geralt could see that her eyes were red with exhaustion and her makeup barely covered the scratch marks on her face. “None has worked effectively. I was told that I was cursed because of my sins.”

“Who told you this?” Milva asked.

“The birds,” Vivienne said.

Milva looked quickly to Geralt. He knew she was thinking of the prophecy.

“What do these birds look like? Have you seen them?” he asked Vivienne.

“They fill my dreams,” Vivienne said in a hoarse voice. “Yellow and black. Golden orioles. They sing ‘cursed, cursed’ and peck at my eyes and tear at my skin. I fight and fight and wake up terrified. Sometimes they just watch me, accusing silently. Sometimes they are dead and broken on the ground…” she breathed in a shuddery sob. “Even when I’m awake, I hear them, now. Birdsong tormenting me. I see feathers sprouting from my hands and arms. I feel them pushing out of my skin and I have to tear them out.” She pulled up a loose sleeve and showed the red furrows of scratches up her forearms. “Sometimes my nose hardens into a beak and I can’t speak, just shriek. I know it’s a trick of my mind, but it feels so real.”

Milva swallowed hard. “This is way above my pay grade,” she said. “I just shoot things.”

“Do golden oriels have any significance for you?” Regis asked. “Is there some reason that specific bird appears?”

“Yes,” Vivienne whispered. “But I’d rather not talk about that.”

Geralt moved close to her. “If you want, everyone else can leave. We can talk just you and me. Because I know there’s more to the story, and I know it’s painful for you, but I can’t fix it unless I know everything.” He looked into Vivienne’s bloodshot, teary eyes. “You believe you’ve been punished for your sins whether real or not. This is probably part of the curse. What do you think you did that is so bad that you’re meant to be tearing your own skin off?”

Vivienne’s lips trembled and her face crumpled. “I killed someone,” she rasped through her rising tears. “I screamed at him. I raged. I told him to walk away and keep walking and never see me again. And then he walked and walked into the lake and I never saw him again.”

“Guillaume?” Anna Henrietta breathed, eyes wide. “My dear, that was not your fault. He was unstable, obsessed. You were not responsible for his choice.”

“He called me his golden bird,” Vivienne snuffled. “He told me he would die without my love. And when I got annoyed and impatient and scared, I told him I didn’t want his love. I didn’t want him, and he was ruining my life chasing after me like this. I sent him to his death.”

“Wait…” Milva said. “Some obsessive stalker with mental health issues makes bad choices, and you’re blaming yourself? Girl, you do not deserve this.”

“I’m cursed,” Vivienne said. “Of course, I must deserve it. He had his whole life ahead of him and I couldn’t even let him down gently. I hurt him in the worst way and I have to live with the consequences. He’s sending me messages from the afterlife to show that he is still in torment.”

“Nope,” Geralt said loudly. The others all looked at him wide-eyed.

Regis almost smiled. His eyes sent a spark of warmth toward Geralt’s. Milva and Anna looked furious. Dandelion looked like he was regretting drinking so much. Vivienne blinked at him through tears and the eyeliner smearing on her swollen face.

“It’s not a curse,” Geralt said. “And it’s not a pissed-off spirit speaking beyond the grave.” He put a hand on Vivienne’s shoulder. “I’m going to help you, but it won’t be easy. I need a little time to prepare, but believe me, your suffering will end. I promise.”

Relief washed over Vivienne’s face and she sagged into Geralt. “Please, anything,” she whispered. “I can’t live like this anymore.”

“You won’t have to,” Geralt assured her. “Just give me a little time.” He carefully disengaged from her and turned his head to Dandelion and Regis. “I need you two to look after her, while I talk to Milva and Anna.”

“Certainly,” Regis said smoothly. Dandelion just looked faintly terrified.

Once they were a safe distance from the VIP room, Geralt gestured the two women to come close. “The fewer people know about this, the better. It has to be secret until we can get Vivienne to a safe place where I can fight this thing.”

“What thing?” Milva demanded.

“Vivienne has a parasite. It’s a very sneaky, nasty son-of-a-bitch called a hym, a kind of specter that attaches to people and feeds off their guilt. It drives them to self-mutilation and suicide. You’re lucky you caught it this early.”

“Lucky?” Anna Henrietta sputtered. “My closest friend is possessed by a demon and you call her lucky? And how do you intend to rid her of such a thing?”

“The way I fight most monsters. But I can’t attack it until it knows it’s been found. Then it will come out swinging. We need the right place. A large area where bystanders won’t get hurt.”

Anna Henrietta frowned. “The riding arena on my property could do. We will have to make sure it is empty.”

“All right, give me the location and I’ll meet you there tomorrow morning. Let’s say nine o’clock. Find an excuse to bring Vivienne. And absolutely do not tell Dandelion or anyone else. If the hym gets wise to the fact that it’s been identified, it will lash out and hurt a lot of people, including Vivienne.”

“I understand,” she said.

Milva put her hands on her hips. “What can I do?” she asked. “Is it vulnerable to silver bullets?”

“You are not going to be there,” he said. “Hyms can teleport like wraiths and you’ve already experienced what a wraith can do.”

Milva exhaled her disappointment. “Then why’d you bring me out here and tell me what’s going on?”

“Because I know you can be trusted not to blab, unlike Dandelion, and I know you’d never stop hounding me if I didn’t clue you in.”

Milva snickered. “And I suppose Regis already guessed what it was.”

“Oh, he knows,” Geralt said. “I need him in there to comfort Vivienne and keep Dandelion from freaking out.” He tilted his head to Anna Henrietta. “By the way, you’re taking all this very well, Mrs. Governor.”

She gave him an arch look. “I must remain calm and controlled in all circumstances.”

“I’m sure you do,” Geralt said dryly. “All right, let’s get the others out of there and give everyone a chance to enjoy a little more of the party, if they can.”

Anna Henrietta sent Vivienne home with one of her security guards and she and Dandelion went out to mingle with his guests again, looking a bit more subdued. Milva went to get another beer. Regis and Geralt helped themselves to the Sangreal.

“Very pleasant,” Regis concluded after taking a sip. “I’m not much of a wine connoisseur, but I can appreciate a quality vintage.”

“You live in Toussaint and you don’t know wine?” Geralt teased.

Regis gave him a smile. “Do you?”

“Nah,” Geralt said. “More of a beer and whiskey guy myself.”

“Very masculine,” Regis said, still smiling. “But not very patriotic. Then again, you’re not from the area, judging by your accent. It’s almost Rivian, but not quite.”

“You have a good ear,” Geralt said. He ignored the implied question. “Where are you from, anyway?”

“I grew up in this area, but I’ve lived just about everywhere. Most recently Dillingen.” Regis held the glass to his lips for a long moment.

“I got the impression that you didn’t drink,” Geralt said, broaching the subject at last. “You mentioned you had a problem.”

“Not an alcohol problem,” Regis said, “although an addiction counselor might say that any intoxicating substance is a gateway to relapse. However, I’ve found that I can enjoy adult beverages in moderate amounts. I just don’t always feel the need to.”

Geralt was flummoxed. Was Regis addicted to fisstech? Hallucinogens? Alchemical intoxicants? It was impossible to imagine.

Regis’ gaze flickered around the room and then back to Geralt. He folded both hands around the glass in his hands. “Just so you know, to your left, near the mural of the dolphin, there’s a very conventionally attractive young woman trying to get your attention.”

Geralt’s head turned and there was the model from Dandelion’s table: a leggy brunette beauty in a short black dress with an iridescent sheen like an oil slick. He thought he might have seen her on some TV ads for a major department store chain. She met his eyes and gave him a coy look with a “how about it?” shoulder shrug.

“Hang on,” he said to Regis. “I need to investigate this situation.

He sidled up to the woman who immediately moved in close. Her silver earrings were shaped like old-fashioned pistols and flapped against her jaw and neck as she swayed into Geralt’s space.

“Hey,” she said. “I don’t need to know your name. You wanna dance?”

“Show me how it’s done,” he said in a low voice near her ear.

They moved against each other to the steady rhythm of the electronic bass vibrating the air around them. Geralt smelled her sweat and perfume and a whiff of the vodka tonic she’d been drinking. The fabric of her dress was soft and clung to his fingers. She sighed a little against his neck.

Across the room, he saw Milva had returned to Regis, beer in hand. Regis was still staring into the distance, somewhere near the bar. Geralt should join them. He had an early morning exorcism of the hym and then a full day of work. But the woman against him felt so good: hot, soft and hungry. She pushed a hand under the hem of his shirt and over the scarred skin of his side. He felt the surprise register in her as her body still for a moment and she lost the rhythm of the music. But she soon recovered, kissing at his chin and bringing her hand up his back to grip the top his shoulder. His shirt was rucked up, caught in her elbow.  He kissed her mouth deeply and felt her gasp. She turned her face to lick his ear. She said something, but he couldn’t hear over the pounding music.

Across the room, he caught Regis’ gaze and stilled. He had never seen that expression before. Regis’ glittering black eyes trapped him. His mouth had subtle, sardonic tilt. He looked almost predatory, a molten heat simmering under a still, cool surface. He lifted his glass to his lips and drank, eyes never leaving Geralt. Something crackled inside Geralt—red-hot coal crumbling in a fire. The growl of the music, the sweet wine in his veins, the woman rubbing her body against his…it was lust and alcohol and the sweat of this dark, hot place. His stare locked with Regis’ dark stare for only a handful of seconds. Then Regis looked away, said something to Milva, transformed back into the affable gentleman out for a rare night on the town.

For a moment, disappointment flooded Geralt, though he couldn’t say why. He continued to watch Regis as the woman in his arms rocked against him. He wondered if that look had been a trick of the shifting colored lights in the dim interior of the club.

Then Geralt saw Regis point to someone, still speaking with Milva. He followed their line of sight and saw her. Her hair looked white as milk under the weird lights of the club. She wore tight riding trousers, a loose blouse, and a long olive-green jacket. The scar cutting across her eye was the clearest giveaway. He could only see brief glimpses of her as people moved around the dancefloor. She was having an intense conversation with another woman Geralt could barely see. Her hands gesticulated wildly with the level of her agitation.

In a smooth move, Geralt lifted the brunette model away from him. “Sorry!” he shouted over the music as he set her down and turned away to make his way across the dancefloor. As he approached, he saw Cirilla was speaking loudly to a statuesque woman with short hair and a steady gaze.

“I just need to—” she stopped, sensing his approach and jerked to look at him, already tensing into a defensive position. Then her face slackened with shock. She stared at Geralt—eyes as wide as wells, frozen in place. Despair seemed to sink into her. “No, no, you can’t,” she said, anguished. “You’re not safe here.”

“Cirilla, I just want to talk to you,” Geralt started to say. “Your father…”

“Oh no,” she moaned. She looked on the verge of tears. “Please don’t follow me, Geralt. And tell Yen to stay away too. I’m begging you.”

Then she turned and ran. Geralt didn’t hesitate before taking off after her. His brain was on fire and he needed answers. He sprinted just behind her, watched her burst though and emergency exit and followed close after. But as soon as they got to the street—an empty alleyway lined with dumpsters—the trap closed in.

A blur to Geralt’s left brought him spinning around. The sharp night air echoed with high-pitched giggles and the whir of intense movement. His medallion trembled violently. The first alp materialized in front of Cirilla, bringing her to a halt. Another solidified next to Geralt and lunged at him. His reflexes saved him and he fell into a roll, immediately reaching for the knife in his sleeve as he came to his feet again.

He saw then that Cirilla had been able to conceal a short sword strapped to her back under the long jacket. She held it in both hands, watching the movement of the alp. Geralt had his hands full trying to get under his alp’s rapid strikes to cut her. He cursed his lack of swords and vampire oil. He sent a stream of Igni at her but she had already flashed to another position. Then a third dark figure flared into existence on his other side. They were both giggling madly, knowing they had him.

Geralt felt himself settle into the cold desperation of survival mode. He threw up a Quen shield. He could do nothing for Cirilla, who was a blur of movement on his peripheral. She spun and swung at the alp, but was unable to hit. The vampire on his right sprang to him and he saw the second one follow her lead, just an instant behind. He rolled between them and got to his feet, wondering how long he had to dodge before he could land a blow. And how many hits would they get in first? He could only cast Quen so many times. One snarled at him, the other laughed. Their gray faces twisted with the mad joy of the hunt. Their long hair was a red firestorm of writhing death.

Then a streak of black smoke blasted across Geralt’s vision. At first, he thought a fourth alp had appeared. But it was a different force entirely. The two alps near him fell, one immediately after the other. They were torn to pieces in seconds, limbs ripped from their bodies, gouges torn through their heads and throats by an invisible force. Immediately, the black smoke raced to Cirilla’s attacker. The last alp tried to flee, but only got a few steps before she fell, spraying blood and bile from a gash in her abdomen. “Traitor!” she screamed. Then her head was ripped off her body. It rolled past Cirilla’s feet and settled wetly on the pavement.

There was silence except for the sputter of a street light and Cirilla’s heavy breathing. She turned to Geralt, speechless, chest heaving. Her sword glinted in her hand. For a long moment she looked at him. Her mouth trembled, then she said, “Goodbye,” softly and disappeared in a flash of green light.

Geralt fell to his knees on the pavement, dropping his knife. The carrion smell of the torn alps rose hot and reeking. He heard a choked sound behind him and saw Milva. She was standing just outside the door, mouth agape, gun drawn but hanging at her side.

“I couldn’t even get a single shot off, they were moving so fast,” she said, trying to take in the scene. “What the hell happened?”

“I have no fucking idea,” Geralt said, fighting back a crazy desire to laugh. He felt dizzy with relief and disbelief.

Regis emerged from the door behind Milva, wild-eyed and out of breath. His hands were clenched into fists. “Are you all right?” he asked Geralt.

“Yeah,” Geralt said with a slow shake of his head. “But I don’t know why.”

In the morning, Geralt packed his bag with specter oil and potions and drove Roach up to the governor’s mansion on the hill overlooking the city. The trip gave him time to ponder the night before. He hadn’t been able to locate the woman that Cirilla had been talking to. No one appeared to know why Cirilla was there, and the mysterious black smoke (vampire?) that had killed the alps didn’t make another appearance. Regis had departed soon after, saying he needed to get home and Milva was anxious to check on Eithné, so they all left well before the party was over. It had been a terrifying and frustrating night.

At the gate to the estate, Geralt showed his ID to the guard at the entry station and parked in the far back lot, near the riding arena. It was a towering, roofed building large enough to house a yacht. The door to the massive building was unlocked, as Anna Henrietta had promised. Inside, he walked under the sloping bleachers and into the ring lined with cedar chips. It smells of wood and oil. He set his bag on a bench and started to prepare, slathering specter oil on his blade and drinking Petri’s Philter to enhance his signs.

A little after the appointed time, Anna Henrietta entered the ring, accompanied by Vivienne, who looked startled to see Geralt there. Her hands flew to her chest and she made a squeaking noise. He saw the red scrapes on her wrists and hands had increased.

Anna Henrietta touched her friend’s back. “He’s here to help, like he promised,” she said.

“This might be hard to understand,” Geralt said, but you’ve been possessed by a hym, a creature that thrives on feelings of guilt and shame. I need to exorcise it before it kills you.”

Vivienne’s hands tightened on her chest. “A hym?” she whispered.

Behind her, a shadowy form began to take shape with the spiky, jagged features of a nightmare creature. It stretched and writhed and hissed at Geralt. Vivienne screamed. Anna Henrietta, backed away, eyes huge and frightened.

“Get out of here,” Geralt told her, readying his sword.

She backed out of the door, but he could still see the edge of her face peering in.

The black shadow whipped toward him. It could streak from one place to another, but its blows were slow and calculated, Geralt knew from experience. He rolled under one long black arm with spindly claws and spun to land a cut on the hym’s back. He managed one more strike before the hym disintegrated and re-appeared on the other side of the room.

Vivienne collapsed to her hands and knees on the floor. A slithery trail of darkness still connected her to the hym’s flickering form. She sat back on her folded legs and began to shudder, crying and scratching with both hands at the skin of her throat.

Breathing hard, Geralt threw the Axii sign at her and saw her fall limply to the ground. Then the hym was flaring to life directly in front of him. Its very presence sucked the life and warmth out of his body. He struck a heavy blow to the hym’s middle, then rolled back and left to escape its draining force. The hym’s gangly arms stretched like thick black tar, reaching for him. Geralt cut across them, making the hym hiss and fade out of sight again.

He thought he saw it reappear in the shadows of the far wall, but it was hard to tell, since it blended into the darkness so well. Vivienne began to moan again. Geralt sprinted forward and sent a wave of Igni at the shadows on the wall, illuminating the fiendish form of the hym. It snarled in pain and anger, arms wildly swinging at the flames that surrounded it. Geralt executed a series of fast, hard cuts and felt the cord break as the hym lost its connection with Vivienne and flashed out of existence with a distorted, eerie shriek.

Geralt went to Vivienne, where she lay, curled into a ball on the floor. He saw she was shivering and breathing shakily, but alive and uninjured.

“Vivienne, it’s over,” he said as softly as he could. “The nightmares and visions are gone.”

She began to cry softly.

Anna Henrietta ran to them and crouched down to stroke Vivienne’s hair.

“I told you to leave,” he grumbled. “That means get far away. That thing could have torn you apart with one swipe.”

“You never told me this exorcism involved a fight that would endanger her life,” she said hotly.

“There are always risks involved,” Geralt said. “If we left the hym on her, it would have eventually driven her to suicide. This way she had a chance to live the rest of her life without fear.”

“Or die in a horrible way in a riding arena,” Anna Henrietta shot back. “You should have told me.”

Vivienne’s sobs quieted under Anna Henrietta’s gentle hands. Eventually she was able to stand and walk unsteadily, leaning on her friend’s arm. She looked up at Geralt through swollen eyes. “Thank you,” she said thickly. “I feel like a heavy cage has been lifted off me. I want to live.”

Geralt made it back to the auto shop in time to help Milva open and start the day. The morning started slow but they had a bunch of drop-ins around lunch time, mostly simple jobs. Around lunch time, Cahir dropped by with a bag of oatmeal-chocolate-chip cookies and discussed the events of the night before with Geralt and Milva.

“A vampire attacked other vampires?” he said, mouth twisted. “Why?”

“That’s what I’d like to know,” Geralt said, grabbing a cookie. “And why were the alps after Emhyr’s daughter? I thought it was the Lodge that was hunting her.”

“Milva told me about that case,” Cahir said, shaking his head. “You sure take on a lot of high-risk jobs, don’t you?”

“And you wouldn’t?” Geralt asked with half a smirk. “It wasn’t me that nearly got killed by a wraith, trying to protect Milva.”

Cahir flushed and Milva smiled as she bit into her cookie. She chewed slowly, then said, “Geralt dreamed about that girl getting chased by vampires last night, before we went to The Silver, and the then it happened.”

“It was different,” Geralt started to say.

“I know, but we have to consider that there’s a connection between you and her,” Milva argued. “If Yen knew her before, maybe you did too.”

“I don’t have prophetic dreams,” Geralt argued. “If that dream was real, it happened in the past. Cirilla and Hana were running from the vampires, and one of them killed Hana. That’s all. And like you said, it could have been my subconscious acting up after reading the file.”

“And then vampires show up at the Silver chasing her? That’s too much of a coincidence.”

“Well, until she appears again, there’s not much we can do, right?” Cahir said, brushing cookie crumbs off his fingers. “In the meantime, I can dig up another case to investigate, if you’re both interested.” He bit his lip and looked at Milva. “I could bring dinner by tonight. Do you like pizza?”

“Yeah,” Milva said huskily. “Nothing with pineapple though.” She cleared her throat and pushed her hair over her shoulder self-consciously. “If you really want to get on my good side, you’ll bring a good dark beer too.”

“Sure,” Cahir chirped, voice high. “I’ll set aside some case files to go over. It’ll be fun.” He wiped his palms on his uniform pants roughly. “I guess I’d better get going then.”

“See you soon,” Milva said, folding her hands together loosely. Her eyes followed him as he walked out the door.

Geralt tried not to roll his eyes.

When Milva finally noticed the expression on his face, she gave him her signature glare. “What?”

“Oh Aunty, you could have just told me you were interested in him,” Geralt teased.

“Fuck off,” Milva said, tossing her head. “You’re not the only one who gets to have a handsome friend over for dinner. Maybe I like to fantasize too.”

“Okay, I’m definitely not responding to that,” Geralt said, raising his hands. “Just let me know if you want me to show up late or duck out early so you can get some one-on-one time to explore his handcuffs.”

Milva snorted a laugh and went for the door. “You’re the worst, Geralt. Don’t even think about embarrassing me at dinner. I know where you sleep, and I will have my revenge.”

Around two, when Geralt was finishing off his third cup of coffee, a woman entered the office, car keys in hand. His medallion gave a tremor and a small hop. He set down his cup and moved his hands down under the desk.

She had bright red hair twisted in two buns behind her head. Her face was almost unnaturally smooth and youthful, with plump pink lips and big doe eyes. Sorceress, Geralt thought. But she didn’t have the arrogant confidence of most sorceresses he knew. There was something vulnerable and uncertain in the way she moved, the downturn of her mouth when she looked at him. He felt she was familiar, but couldn’t place her.

“I need an oil change,” she said in a soft voice. “Perhaps you could help me.”

“It will be about half an hour before we can fit you in,” he said, readying his hands under the desk to cast a sign if he needed to. “You can wait, make an appointment for another time…or you can tell me what you really came here for.”

She said nothing for a moment, eyes fastened on his face. Her head dropped slightly. “I wanted to see if you were prepared.”

“For what?” he asked, voice low.

“You know,” she said. “If you continue to pursue Ciri, they will kill you this time. There are no other options. Please, for all our sakes, just leave Toussaint. Forget about this job. Emhyr cannot pay you enough to save your life.”

“The Lodge is sending out threats?” Geralt knew Milva kept a gun in one of the desk drawers, but he doubted it would be much use against a mage.

“They don’t know I’m here…I hope,” she said quietly. “It’s a warning, Geralt. This is all I can do for you, I’m sorry. Please don’t continue on this path.”

“Thanks for the warning,” he said brusquely. “I’ll consider it. Bye now.”

She gave him another long, pleading look, then straightened her shoulders and went for the door. He remembered then; she was the woman standing behind Foltest, the Temerian leader, at the diplomatic summit. So, a high-placed sorceress then, but a strange one.

The Lodge already knew he was on Cirilla’s trail. This called for a conference with Regis. He was eager to see the herbalist again, after the night at the club. That look… It was strange. Geralt rarely slept with men, and when he did it was guys more like Cahir—young and pretty and eager. But there was something about Regis’ eyes that night that made desire flare inside him. Or was it just the woman rolling into him that had sparked that?

As soon as the auto shop closed for the day, Geralt left for Regis’ shop. The closed sign was up on the door, and Geralt could hear voices inside when he focused his witcher senses. Two men.

He knocked on the door and heard footsteps approach. Regis didn’t even pause to look through the keyhole. The door swung open. “Hello,” Regis said. “Please come in.” He looked the same as ever—ruffled salt-and-pepper hair, gentle eyes, long-sleeved shirt and utility apron with pockets for his little clippers, tiny jars, and gloves.

“Sorry to bother you,” Geralt said. “I heard voices. You have a visitor?”

Regis looked toward the bar. “Just Dettlaff,” he said. “He’s a bit shy of new people.”

Dettlaff emerged from behind a shelf and sent Geralt a dirty look. “I see you stop by at all hours of the day.”

“So do you, apparently,” Geralt shot back.

He and Regis walked to the bar where Dettlaff stood, black brows like thunder clouds. He wore a long, heavy coat that must have been sweltering in the mild autumn of Toussaint. A bright golden broach in the shape of a golden moth perched on the front of it. His dark hair was slicked back on his head. With his sharp features and petulant mouth, he had the kind of face that so often appeared on movie posters: an angry, handsome man without a trace of self-awareness.

“Dettlaff and I were just preparing for a trip,” Regis said smoothly. “We are planning to travel to Nazair very soon. It’s quite pleasant at this time of year.”

Geralt’s eyes narrowed. “Are you serious? Taking a vacation now?”

Regis shook his head. “Not a vacation. An escape. Events are coming to a head in Beauclair with the vampire attacks, and it will be safer for everyone if I am not here.”

“Safer for you?” Geralt asked, chest constricting.

“Yes,” Regis said. “Safer for me too.” His troubled eyes studied Geralt’s face. “I know you think that I’m running away, abandoning you and the others. But trust me when I say this is the best for you all.”

“A lot of people have been asking me to trust them when they tell me shit I don’t like,” Geralt muttered. “Somehow everyone else knows what’s best for me and they have to be all mysterious about it.”

Dettlaff huffed. “You have no idea what Regis has done for you or what he’s risking just by being here now. You have no idea what’s coming for you.”

Regis curled a hand around Dettlaff’s upper arm. “That’s enough,” he said quietly.

Geralt felt a hot constriction in his chest. “You’d better go then,” he said roughly. “Thanks for all your help.”

Regis’ throat worked as he swallowed hard. “Not just me. Geralt, you need to take Milva and Eithné and get out of Toussaint. Go to Kovir or Zerrikania, or the Blue Mountains. Just get far away.”

“But not Nazair?” Geralt said bitterly.

“Geralt—” Regis stopped, blinked. “It’s better if we’re not in the same place. Fewer targets. I meant to give all this to you in a message, but it looks like we’re meant to confront it now.”

“You told me I was prophesied to fight the Unseen Elder and prevent the apocalypse,” Geralt argued. “Isn’t this exactly where I’m supposed to be?”

“No,” Regis said hoarsely. “Geralt, if you fight the Unseen Elder, you will die. There is no other outcome.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do. It’s in the prophecy.”

Geralt froze. “You knew all this time my death was prophesied and you didn’t tell me?”

Regis shook his head, mouth tight. “I had hoped it was an error in interpretation or translation. I had hoped you weren’t to be the white wolf at all. But even if you aren’t, the Unseen Elder is immortal. No being on this sphere can defeat him.” His hands dropped to his sides. “With the increase in monsters, and now the vampires…”

“Something bad is coming,” Dettlaff finished. “Emiel can’t be here anymore.” He put a hand on Regis’ shoulder and Geralt saw that his nails were also long and polished.

“Angoulême will look after the shop,” Regis said in a steadier voice. “It won’t stay open while I’m gone, but she can live here and keep it from disrepair.” He reached into a pocket on his apron and pulled out a small object. “I made this for you. A small token on my departure.”

He took Geralt’s hand in his and put on his palm. It was a flat copper disc engraved with symbols Geralt didn’t recognize. Regis rubbed his thumb over it and released Geralt’s hand. “It has a little clasp at the top. Attach it to the chain with your medallion and it will enhance the medallion’s range so you can sense magic and monsters sooner.”

Geralt closed his hand around it. It was cool and smooth. The thin edges bit into his palm and he squeezed it harder.

“Thanks,” he said, a rasping word. “I guess I’d better let you go and pack. Going to say goodbye to Milva and Dandelion before you leave?”

Regis shook his head, eyes glittering. “Please give them my regards. I will miss you all. But this is not forever.”

“Feels like forever,” Geralt said quietly.

Another agonizing silence filled the shop, while Regis wilted slowly and Dettlaff’s glare on Geralt intensified to a fiery beam.

Geralt exhaled against the ache of despair. “Bye, then.” He turned and walked away.

It had been a really shitty day so far. Doom and gloom seemed to be setting in from all sides. Instead of heading home for dinner and watching Cahir and Milva make eyes at each other, Geralt stopped in at one of the many trendy wine bars lining the street. This one was white with pale blue trim and little lemon trees in big pots on either side of the door.

A raven perched on the telephone pole nearby. Geralt gave it the finger and strolled into the wine bar. It was bright and airy and festooned with little pots of lavender and basil. The tables were empty except for a foursome of wealthy-looking women in various shades of burgundy and goldenrod, all wearing long brown boots and scarves tied in various ways.

Geralt took a stool at the long, clean bar and ordered a glass of Evreluce from the older woman behind the counter with a floral bandana covering her hair. What he really wanted was a glass of mandrake cordial and Regis on the stool next to him. But that was off the table for the foreseeable future. He pushed the bitter burn deep down inside and studied the labels on the bottles behind the counter. Leave Toussaint? Could he convince Milva to uproot Eithné from school and leave her business behind? It seemed unlikely. But she had already suffered broken bones and burns and witnessed the power of higher vampires in action. Maybe she would do it to protect Eithné.

When the proprietress set the glass of wine in front of him, he thanked her and studied the silky red liquid in the big glass. He picked it up and swirled it, watching the crimson furls of the wine twist and fold. He ignored the door opening and shutting. But when someone took the seat directly next to him at the otherwise empty bar, he had to glance over.

If you didn’t look closely, she appeared to be around thirty years old. Her long, dark hair was woven into two braids that trailed over her shoulders like shining snakes. Her earrings were two large, speckled feathers. Her pale, unblemished skin was smooth and fresh as a woman of eighteen, but when she met his eyes with hers, he saw a long stretch of decades. Centuries, even.

“Hello, Geralt,” her voice confirmed it: deep and rich and haughty with experience. “I think I’ll have the Est Est. Have you tried it?”

“Do I know you?” Geralt asked. “Sorry, I’m missing a few parts of my memory and a lot of people seem to recognize me when I know nothing about them. It’s starting to piss me off.”

“Oh,” her lips pursed with surprise. “So, Yennefer hasn’t restored your memory. And yet you have still chosen to pursue Cirilla. How interesting.” She waved to the bartender with a hand enclosed in smooth suede glove. “A glass of Est Est, please.”

“I haven’t chosen anything,” Geralt asserted. “I just want to know what is going on. Nobody will tell me anything because they think it will put me in danger. But I’m already in danger, apparently.”

“Indeed you are,” she agreed. “But if you promise me you won’t get involved in this whole mess in further than you already have, I will honor your vow and you shall suffer no harm. Not from the Lodge, at least. Of course, there are other players in the game now and I can’t say what they will do to you.”

“What other players?” Geralt demanded.

Her thin red mouth curved upward. “You should ask your dear friend, the herbalist. He has already entangled you, despite his good intentions.”

“If you’re talking about the prophecy…” Geralt’s eyes narrowed. “Never mind. I’m not interested in the threats or warnings or promises of sorceresses. I’ll decide who my friends and enemies are. I’ll decide which jobs I want to finish. And if I decide to go after Cirilla and help her get away from your pack of witches, you’ll just have to live with it.”

The sorceress straightened on her stool, rolled her head slowly on her slim neck. “Yes, you always were a stubborn fool, intent on disrupting our hard work. Very well, I accept your decision and I hope you will accept mine. I will give you a taste of the suffering in store for you.”

The woman behind the counter set the glass of Est Est in front of the sorceress. As soon as her back was turned, the sorceress used her gloved hand to drop a small round object like a little coin into the glass. It flared an inky, unfamiliar symbol in the light-colored wine, which expanded then dissipated.

Geralt’s medallion jumped on his chest. “I don’t take drinks from strangers, especially when they spike them right in front of me.”

“You’ll take this one,” she said, picking it up lightly between two fingers and her thumb.

He pushed his fingers in the sign for Quen and threw up a shield just before her wine glass flew at him. It splashed red over the golden glow of the sign and sizzled there. She spoke a word and pushed the flat of her palm toward him. Cracks spread over the shield and it shattered. The four women at the table started screaming. Geralt threw a blast of Aard at the sorceress. She parried it easily with a sweep of her arm, and sent a glowing blue tangle of light at him. He tried to dodge, but there was no space in the narrow bar area.

The net hit him on his left shoulder and arm. He felt the icy lines of magic paralyzing his muscles. He couldn’t lift his left hand to form signs. He grabbed a stool with his right and threw it at her. Not waiting to see if it hit, he sprinted for the back entrance, useless arm flapping at his side. He heard the wood of the stool crack and explode, then another net of magic hit his back, flooding his body with cold. He kept running, but crashed into a cart of glasses, balance failing.

Flailing on the floor surrounded by shattered glass, he struggled to right himself. He felt her swift approach, smelled her honeysuckle perfume. “Dear boy, you never do learn.” She knelt down near him. He was still writhing and kicking his few working muscles, scattering bits of broken glass. He thrashed his head toward her, felt the light slap of her gloved fingers against his forehead, circling there. The suede of her glove was damp and reeked of Est Est. “If this doesn’t dissuade you, nothing will. I declare, I have humored Yennefer and Triss far too often. But I don’t want to start a feud with them over a foolish witcher. I will spare you one more time. But you will suffer for your insolence.”

He tried to bite her hand and she laughed richly again. “Goodbye, wolf pup. You’ll be tamed, yet.” She rose and he heard the click of her heels as she left.

Police sirens were approaching from a distance. Geralt could feel the numbness in his arm slowly easing with the prickling of nerve endings. As the distance from the sorceress increased, her magic weakened. He was able to twist his back again and rolled to his feet unsteadily. He forced his rubbery muscles to stand and limped out the back door into the alley. The siren increased in volume but he could get away before the police arrived, as long as they moved at their usual creeping speed.

He made it three blocks, mobility increasing with each step, before the itchy spot on his forehead started to throb. Seconds later, pain burst like a dancing star bomb in his head. He had to stop and drop his hands on his knees to keep from retching. It started at his forehead and spread in fiery tentacles through his skull to his jaw and neck. His eyes were burning and watering. He opened his mouth to scream, but nothing came out.

The pain traveled down to his shoulders and arms. His bag dropped to the ground and he scrambled through it, looking for White Honey, Swallow, anything to ease the agony. But by then, the liquid fire was running streaking down his back and roiling in his belly. He fell onto this back. His vision hazed over in red. He could feel the scratchy cement beneath him, feel his body twitching and convulsing. Crushing through it all, there was the endless, unstoppable flood of pain.

Then a shadow covered him, a hand pressed against his head, cool and gentle. “Sleep,” commanded a hushed voice. And darkness closed the door.

Chapter Text

He woke a few times, but the pain was always there: a red void swallowing him up. Terror cut through him. Shadows whipped and laughed madly. Fangs tore at his back. An archespore thrashed in front of him, spat a yellow stream of poison in his face. A centipede exploded from the ground under his feet and threw him back into a pit of hideously grinning nekkers. Huge hairy spiders crawled down the walls, ready to wrap him up in suffocating streams of sticky discharge. The jagged black form of a demon descended on him, wrapped him in burning darkness, hissing “Cursed, cursed, cursed.”

Each time, as soon as he began to scream, he felt the cool palm on his forehead, the whispered “Sleep” and the horror blacked out again, for a time.

Finally, Geralt awoke in a thick, warm haze. The pain and nightmares were still there, but muted and distant. He floated above them. He blinked slowly at the blurry view of the word around him. It was Regis’ room on the upper floor of his shop, the room Geralt had only glimpsed before. The walls were patterned with ivy vines trailing down the wallpaper, faded with time. It contained the bed he lay in, a simple oak nightstand with no lamp, a little desk covered in papers and books, and a rough-hewn bookshelf stuffed with volumes. A chair was pulled to one side of the bed near an IV stand. The edges of everything glowed and blurred in Geralt’s vision. He closed his eyes again.

Sometime later, he opened them when he felt a damp, cool cloth on his forehead. A fuzzy version of Regis hovered above him.

“Good,” Regis said softly. “Now maybe you can eat something.”

“Thought you’d gone,” Geralt croaked.

“I didn’t have a chance to leave,” Regis said with a small smile. “Don’t think about it. Just rest, I’ll bring some soup.” His image wavered and danced before Geralt’s eyes.

“White Gull?” Geralt asked, recognizing the familiar swirling, dizzying high of the alchemical base.

“It was the only thing I could think of,” Regis said. “I’ll be right back.”

Geralt flopped his head to the side and realized that there was an IV line running from his arm to a bag on a rack on the side of the bed. He giggled nonsensically, wiggled his hips and felt the catheter there on his dick. For some reason, the thought of Regis putting it in him made him embarrassed and warm at the same time. Already made it to third base, he thought goofily.

Regis returned with a bowl and spoon. He sat in the chair next to Geralt’s bed. “How is the pain?”

“Not bad,” Geralt said. “I’ve had worse. A sylvan kicked me in the balls once.” Another bubble of laughter rose in his throat.

“Try to sit up a little,” Regis pushed some pillows behind him and help Geralt into a semi-reclined position. He lifted a spoonful of orange soup to Geralt’s mouth. Geralt thought he could probably do it himself, but the sensation of Regis feeding him by hand made happiness sparkle in little violet butterflies around the room. He closed his lips around the spoon and sucked up the soup. Blended carrots and ginger, spicy and sweet and smooth.

“You’re drugged and disoriented,” Regis explained. “I don’t trust you not to spill this all over yourself.”

Geralt nodded and swallowed. “I feel like I could skip out the window. But don’t worry, I won’t.”

“Thank you.” Regis lifted another spoonful. “The White Gull is a temporary relief for your symptoms until we can ascertain a way to lift the curse.”

“Curse?” Geralt said. “A sorceress put a spell on me.”

“No,” Regis said. “I thought that at first, but it takes energy and proximity to maintain a typical spell of this magnitude, and as far as I can tell, she is not around to do so. When I looked closer with a magical scan, I saw the marker of a curse on your forehead. The only trouble is, I don’t know how to lift it. I thought maybe you might have an idea.”

Geralt tried to concentrate, but his head was filled with pink clouds and he only wanted to eat the delicious soup and maybe kiss Regis, if he could make that happen. He forced himself to think. “Maybe the cleansing ritual?”

“Yes, now that you are conscious and able to inhale and hold your breath, we will definitely attempt it. But I fear, with a sorceress of her caliber, it won’t be so simple.”

Geralt kept looking at the spoon in Regis’ hand, shiny and bright. Regis’ fingers were long and beautiful. Geralt very much wanted to touch them to his lips one by one. He didn’t. He took the next spoonful of soup and held it in his mouth, savoring the tang of the ginger. He swallowed.

“Are you going to Nazair?” he asked, feeling his eyes tear up at the thought.

“No,” Regis assured him. “Not until you’re completely cured.”

“Then I don’t want to be cured,” Geralt declared. “I want you to stay forever.”

Regis just smiled. “I understand,” he said. “Let’s finish the soup. I messaged Milva and she should be here soon with Eithné. Do you think you have the energy to see them?”

“Yeah.” Geralt felt a little disappointed that he wouldn’t have time to make a move on Regis, but it would be good to see his girls.

“Tell me everything you can remember,” Regis said.

Geralt scrunched up his face. “There was a freaky sorceress. Two black braids. A red skirt suit. She knew me. She put something in the wine. I didn’t know the symbol.”

“Can you draw it?” Regis rose and got a pen and pad of paper.

Geralt tried, but his fingers felt too big for his body and weren’t listening to the commands from his head. Regis took the pen and did his best to draw it as Geralt described it. It still looked a little off, but his memory faded in and out the harder he tried to focus it.

“I don’t recognize this, but I’ll do some research,” Regis said. “Cahir interviewed the staff at the wine bar but no one could describe what happened. They couldn’t think of a single identifying feature for the woman you were speaking with. However, from your description, it appears you had a run-in with the leader of the Lodge, Philippa Eilhart. She disappeared shortly after the confrontation, of course.”

“She wanted me to suffer,” Geralt said, remembering.

“You have suffered,” Regis murmured, soft and pained. “It was excruciating to see your agony.”

Footsteps thumped on the stairs, and eventually Milva and Eithné entered the room. Milva’s eyes and nose looked red. Seeing Geralt, she smiled with an uncharacteristic vulnerability.

Eithné raced to the bed, bright hair bouncing from her ponytail. “Geralt, I made a card for you—and look! I drew a picture of you and me practicing fighting with swords.”

“That never happened,” Geralt told Milva. He petted Eithné’s head—so pretty and shiny. “Thanks for the cool card, kid.”

“Are you coming home soon?” Eithné asked said with a whine in her voice. “I need you.”

“Dunno,” Geralt said, cupping her little cheek. “I’m trying to get well, but I don’t know when I can come home. Soon, I hope.”

“You’re feeling better?” Milva asked thickly. “We thought…you looked like you were dying.”

“Takes more than a little cursed wine to finish me off,” Geralt said. He could feel the effect of the White Gull slowly fading, the details of the room sharpening. The pain in his head began to intensify. “I’m sorry I can’t help you at the shop. Did you have to close it?”

Milva scowled. “Don’t you ever apologize for that. I thought you were leaving us. I thought I’d never hear your stupid jokes or eat your bland chili ever again.” Her voice broke. She wiped furiously at her eyes. “Cahir’s been helping out between his shifts. Besides, you look like shit, Geralt. I wouldn’t want you at my business, anyway.”

“Language,” he said weakly. At the edges of his vision, shadows were slinking and snickering. He pulled his arms in close around himself. Pain dripped down the back of his neck to the top of his spine. He squeezed his eyes shut.

“Geralt?” Eithné said. “Are you okay?”

Geralt forced his eyes open. He could feel sweat breaking out on his face. “Yeah,” he croaked through the burn in his throat.

“Geralt needs some more medicine and rest,” Regis said. “Please come and visit him again another time.”

“I hope you get better really soon,” Eithné said. She patted his knee under the blanket. “Goodbye, Geralt.”

“Bye, Eith” Geralt rasped through the throbbing in his head.

As soon as Milva and Eithné were out of the room, Regis opened the nightstand and pulled out an unlabled bottle. He carefully tipped it into a vial, checking the measuring lines on the side. “It took me a while to get the dosage right.” He lifted it to Geralt’s mouth. “Tip your head back.”

The White Gull burned hot and cold down Geralt’s throat. In seconds, the pain started to recede and the shadows turned to a glittering, gauzy haze. Geralt slumped back on the pillows. The ceiling above him shifted like sand in the wind. The vines on the walls were climbing and twining into a humid rainforest.

“It always has a strong effect at first,” Regis’ voice echoed through him. He shifted some pillows so that Geralt could lie flat on his back. “Try to sleep a little. I’m going to do some research.”

He stood up leave. Geralt wrenched his head to the side, focusing on Regis’ shimmering figure. “Don’t go,” he pleaded.

Regis paused and went back to his bedside again. “I’ll be back to check on you later.” He touched a hand to Geralt’s shoulder.

“Don’t go!” Geralt begged, nearly shouting. “The monsters will come back if you go.”

Regis studied him for a moment. His eyes were two black stars pulling Geralt into their orbit. “I will stay until you fall asleep,” he said.

He turned to sit the chair, but Geralt reached out and grabbed hold of the long end of his shirt, white like a wave curling into the beach. “Stay here with me,” he said. “Closer.”

Regis chuckled softly and it rumbled through Geralt like a purr. “You want me to share the bed with you? There’s not a lot of room.”

Geralt tugged insistently at his shirt. “Closer.”

Regis kicked off his shoes. He crawled onto the bed and lay stiffly next to Geralt. The sides of their arms touched. Geralt tried to pull him in close, but the IV line got in the way. Regis scolded him gently, then arranged them so that his back was to Geralt’s front. Geralt’s free arm was folded against Regis’ back and the other hung over his waist. His knees touched the backs of Regis’ legs.

“Better,” Geralt said.

Regis’ head rested on the pillow beside his, dark hair curling off the back of his neck. Geralt couldn’t see his face. He stroked the fabric of Regis’ shirt, the skin of his palm tingling. “You feel…” But he couldn’t think of the words. Floating here with Regis, above the sky and the clouds, sharing his warmth…Geralt felt truly safe for the first time in a long time. Nothing would get him here. Regis would save him. Regis would fix him. Regis would stay with him forever.

When he woke again, he was alone in the bed. On the chair nearby, Angoulême sat working on her laptop. She saw him stir and raised her head. “Hey there, junkie. You need another hit, or is the pain still manageable?”

“I’m okay,” he grunted, still trying to orient himself. “Where did Regis go?”

“He’s on the phone talking curses with someone from Temeria,” she said. “He’s been up all day and night researching and looking for leads.” She cocked her head. “Why? You need to snuggle again?”

“No thanks,” Geralt said. His mouth felt gummy and his throat dry. “Can I get some water?”

“Can you?” Angoulême joked. When he glared at her, she rolled her eyes. “Fine, I’ll be right back.”

Geralt looked down and saw that the IV line was gone. Only a light bandage remained on the inside of his elbow.  The catheter was still in, though. They probably didn’t trust him to get out of bed. He shifted, trying to sit up, and the world spun around him. Still, he managed to straighten his back enough to get upright. He dropped his head to his chest, willing the dizziness away.

The vines on the walls weren’t climbing and twining anymore, but they still looked ready to spring out of the wallpaper. His skin still hummed and his blood still felt like thick, warm honey in his veins, but he could at least focus on objects. He still wanted to kiss Regis.

Finally, he felt steadied enough to swing his legs to the floor and test his balance there. But as soon as he got his feet on the carpet, Angoulême returned with a glass of water and a scowl.

“Uncle is gonna kick me out on the street if I let you out of bed,” she said. “Last thing you need is to fall and crack your head open. Besides, he might like you wandering around in your undies, but it does nothing for me.”

Geralt looked down and realized that he was indeed only dressed in a t-shirt and loose boxers, and the catheter line taped to his thigh was clearly visible. He threw the blanket back over his lap, but even that motion sent him sprawling on his back.

“Thank you for proving my point, Gramps,” Angoulême said. She crouched down and lifted his legs, pushing them back onto the bed and turning his body so that he lay flat again. “If you need to take a shit, I can get you a bedpan.”

“You’re too kind,” Geralt muttered as the ceiling swooped and swayed above him.

“Damn right, I am,” Angoulême said. “Who was it, do you think, that figured out what that curse symbol was?”

Geralt was still trying to get his vision to settle down and stay in one place. “You?”

“Yup. Reverse image search and a lot of digging through shitty junior high occult artwork. It’s the seal of the serpent of something or the other from some elf magic. Uncle can tell you more. Now that we know what it is, we just need to figure out how to reverse it. Easy peasy.”

“Easy peasy,” Geralt repeated distantly.

She took a long drink of the water from the glass and made a show of swallowing it. “You still want this?”

Geralt managed to lift his head enough for Angoulême to shove a pillow under his neck. She tilted the glass so that he could drink it in little sips. It tasted as sweet as the snow melt of mountain streams.

“Don’t drink too fast,” she said. “I don’t want you throwing up all over Uncle’s bed. He’s been sleeping on the cot for days because of you.”

Geralt drained the glass. “Thank you,” he said, as she lifted it away.

“No prob.” Angoulême picked up her laptop and walked to the door. “I’m gonna go make a grilled cheese sandwich. You want one?”

“Maybe later,” Geralt said. He had no appetite, but he figured he ought to eat something eventually.

After about ten minutes of lying there, trying to focus thoughts that hovered between complacent and terrified, he decided the only thing he could do was rest and wait. The others would figure out the seal of the serpent of something or the other. He just had to trust their skills.

Regis entered the room a little later, looking tired but cheerful. “Not sleeping yet? Do you want something to eat?”

“I’m fine,” Geralt said. “Just watching all the pretty shapes. I think I’m getting used to being high all the time.”

“Well, it’s not good for your liver or kidneys,” Regis said. “Fortunately, I think we’re close to a solution. I’m sending Milva and Cahir to retrieve an artifact that should let me perform a ritual to lift the curse. At least I hope it will.” He sat in the chair and took Geralt’s hand in his. “Just hold out a little longer. I think I’m going to lower the dose of White Gull, if you can handle it.”

“I can,” Geralt said. Regis’ callused fingers brushed over his knuckles and sent sweet threads of light up his arm and into his chest. “I’ll do anything for you.”

Regis’ smile lit up Geralt’s insides. “I won’t ask much.”

Geralt wrapped his hand around Regis’ and pulled. “Come back to bed with me.”

Regis tilted his head quizzically. “You should be more lucid now.”

“I am,” Geralt tugged him again. “I like having you close to me. Please.”

Regis yielded and climbed onto the bed. He knelt there, looking down at Geralt. “You might be embarrassed to remember this when you’re sober again.”

“I know what I’m doing,” Geralt said, reaching for him. “Come here.”

Regis lowered himself to the mattress. This time they lay facing each other and Geralt could feel Regis studying him, trying to make sense of his actions. Geralt loved looking at Regis’ face—his quick mouth, his elegant nose, the mysterious depths of his black eyes.

“Can I kiss you?” Geralt said, hardly daring to say it.

“Geralt…” Regis started. He sounded slightly choked. “I know you like to tease me. I know… some people can be physical and affectionate with friends. But—”

“I’m not teasing,” Geralt said firmly. “And I don’t… You’re not just a friend to me.”

Regis looked upset and scared then, and Geralt couldn’t understand why.

“No, Geralt, you can’t kiss me. For one thing, you’re drugged right now. Your inhibitions are greatly reduced. For another…I’m not your type; you said so yourself. You’re simply attaching to the person who is currently providing care and comfort.”

“Maybe my type changed,” Geralt argued. He could feel himself pouting. “One kiss, that’s all I’m asking for. If you hate it…”

“No,” Regis said, looking even more distressed. “I will lie here next to you, but—”

“Then let me kiss your hand,” Geralt offered, reaching for it.

Regis blinked at him. “My hand?”

Geralt grasped it and brought it his mouth. Regis stared at him. His fingers were trembling. Geralt kissed them, starting with his thumb. It was strong and graceful, curving upward. Then his index finger, slender and lovely. His nail scraped Geralt’s bottom lip.

Regis’ mouth opened slightly. His breathing was shallow.

Geralt closed his lips around the tip of Regi’s middle finger, touched it with his tongue. Salty with a hint of bitter herbs.

“Oh,” Regis said, then stopped. He inhaled sharply.

Next, Geralt rolled his ring finger against his mouth. He nipped at the edge of the knuckle. Regis never wore rings. Geralt wanted to give him one. Maybe an obsidian one to match his eyes. He moved to the pinky finger, sucked it completely into his mouth, ran his tongue over the sharp edge of the nail.

Regis pulled his hand away, rolled up and on his knees again. “That’s enough,” he said roughly. He clutched his hand to his chest.

“All right,” Geralt said, trying to look as innocent as possible. “That’s all I wanted,” he assured Regis. “You can lie down again. I won’t touch you.”

Regis hesitated, still holding his hand close. Then he slowly descended to reclining position again, lying on his side, facing Geralt. The bed was too narrow to allow much distance between them. Regis looked wary and uncertain, but he said nothing. A handspan separated them. Geralt ached to cross it, but he kept his word. He let his eyes close, basking in the simple proximity of Regis’ body. The darkness behind his eyelids blended rainbow paints, oil on water, black stars pulling planets into orbit.

When the cackling katakans and howling barghests descended, chasing him into a pool swarming with drowners, Regis was there to tip more burning cold White Gull down his throat and muffle them all again.

A damp cloth worked its way from his jaw down over his neck. It rasped over his collarbones. Geralt opened his eyes and saw Regis’ intent face.

“Don’t get excited,” Regis said levelly. “I’m just cleaning you up. I’m going to take off your shirt now.” He pulled it up from the hem, struggling to work it up over Geralt’s back that trapped it on the bed. Geralt shifted groggily, arching his back, then lifting his shoulders and straightening his arms to help Regis get it off. It slid over his head.

“Sponge bath?” he said thickly.

“Something like that.” Regis said. He set down the cloth and picked up a glass of water. “Drink this. You have to stay hydrated.”

Geralt drank down a glass of water and then a mug of vegetable broth. Then Regis started cleaning him again, scrubbing at the sweaty skin of his chest and his stinky underarms.

“Dandelion stopped by earlier, when you were sleeping. He left you a book of poetry to read.”

“He knows me so well,” Geralt said with a chuckle. “Does it have a hundred-crown bill tucked inside it?”

“No, but he’s covered the cost of airfare for Milva and Cahir and the price of the artifact, which was not insignificant,” Regis said. He rinsed his cloth in a basin of water. “He’s doing whatever he can.”

“Damn,” Geralt said softly. “I guess I owe him one.”

“I doubt he’s keeping score,” Regis said, wringing out his cloth one more time. “I’m going to turn you over now.”

“Oh, baby,” Geralt quipped.

Regis raised an eyebrow. “Behave yourself or I’ll have Angoulême come in here.”

Geralt sighed and twisted his body as Regis turned him onto his stomach. Regis ran the cloth over his back. “I’d like to change the sheets soon too.”

“Yeah,” Geralt said. He concentrated on the gentle friction of the washcloth. “The scars don’t bother you?”

Regis huffed a soft laugh. “Why would they?”

“Some people freak out,” Geralt said muzzily. “Or it gets them really hot. I can never predict how they’ll react.”

“I can assure you that I have no reaction,” Regis’ said moving the cloth down to his waistband.

“Gonna get my undercarriage too?”

“Yes,” Regis said. “You’re starting to give off a distinct odor.”

“Ugh, way to ruin the mood.”

“What mood?” Regis yanked down his boxers in one smooth motion.

Geralt yelped as the edge of the fabric caught on his dick. He was glad the catheter had been removed.

“Sorry,” Regis said. He quickly and methodically wiped off Geralt’s ass cheeks, then turned him over again and cleaned his thighs and groin, passing the cloth over his balls and dick as though he were washing a car.

“All done.” He pulled a fresh pair of boxers over Geralt’s feet and ankles, working them up his body until they were secured around his waist.

Geralt rolled his eyes. “Wham, bam, thank you ma’am.”

“Forgive me, I’ve never mastered the art of seductively cleaning the sweat and bacteria off a human body,” Regis said with a smile in his voice. He dropped the washcloth into the bowl of water. “Feeling better now?”

“Yeah,” Geralt said, stretching his arms over his head. “Now that I don’t reek anymore, you wanna come in closer?”

“No,” Regis said, a catch in his voice. “We already went over this, Geralt. It would be unethical to do anything while you are under the influence. You’d probably regret it later. The witcher libido—”

“I know all about that,” Geralt said, rolling his head back into the pillow. “Doesn’t matter if I’m high or not. I wanted you when I wasn’t on White Gull, just didn’t have the chance to talk to you about it.”

“I can’t believe that,” Regis said.

“Well, it’s true. After that look you gave me at The Silver.”

Regis stiffened visibly. “What look?”

“C’mon,” Geralt groaned. “You wanted to be the one plastered up against me. You wanted to be the one pushing your hips into mine. I saw it. Don’t lie to me.”

Regis’ nostrils flared and he looked away sharply. “I was…I’d been drinking and I had a brief moment of curious fascination, nothing more. It was a temporary lapse.”

“Then come and satisfy your curiosity now,” Geralt said, wiggling his pelvis. “Here I am, nearly naked, lying in front of you, ready and willing.” He felt Regis’ eyes raking over him, saw the tension in his frame. “No regrets, I promise.”

“You can’t promise that,” Regis whispered, looking stricken. Nonetheless, he reached down to trace a scar on Geralt’s abdomen. The tips of his fingers were electric and Geralt shivered at the pulse of joy that went through him at Regis’ touch.

Regis’ lips parted.

“Kiss me,” Geralt pleaded.

Regis clenched his eyes shut. “When I told you I had self-control…”

Geralt wrapped his hand around Regis’ wrist, slowly pulled him down so that Regis eased onto the bed, knees on either side of Geralt’s hips, hands flat on the mattress bracketing Geralt’s head. Geralt encircled Regis’ wrists with both hands, rubbed the pulse points with his thumbs. “Kiss me,” he whispered.

Regis made a rough sound in his throat. He leaned down and kissed Geralt’s forehead, a soft press of his mouth. He kissed the corner of Geralt’s left eye, then the shell of his ear. His breath was hot and started steam building in Geralt’s head and chest.

“You’re going to be the end of me,” Regis murmured into Geralt’s ear. “Apparently I have no sense of self-preservation.”

‘C’mere,” Geralt said, pulling Regis’ wrists up toward the headboard until he had no choice but to lower himself on top of Geralt, the full weight of his slim body pushing Geralt into the mattress “You feel so good here.”

Regis fit his face into the curve of Geralt’s neck. “Just for a moment,” he breathed.

Geralt combed his hand through Regis’ thick hair, rubbing the back of his neck. “Stay,” he begged. “Forget about everything else. It doesn’t matter.”

He felt Regis’ warm exhale against his neck. His body was slack and heavy on Geralt’s. Perfect peace. One, two, three slow breaths. Then Regis dragged his hands underneath himself and lifted off the bed. He stood in a smooth motion, only looking back at Geralt for a second. “That’s enough,” he said.

He picked up the bowl of water with the washcloth and the discarded t-shirt and left the room.

Geralt lay back on the sheets, letting the feelings subside. He couldn’t be truly sad on White Gull; it kept tipping him up like a buoy on the waves. The pleasure from the pressure of Regis’ body still coursed through him. The places he’d kissed still bloomed sweetly, like winter flowers. But gradually, solitude frosted over the edges of his vision. He grew cold. Furrows of ice crawled up the walls.

He pulled the blanket over his body and drifted into the emptiness of sleep again.

Chapter Text

She’s walking through the bowels of the beast. It’s not pretty down here, where rust stains streak the grayish walls and blackish puddles spot the pale cement. She passes the laundry department where the air is thick with moisture from the steam of a dozen industrial dryers tossing white sheets in circles. Then there are the supply rooms reeking of cleaning chemicals and vanilla shampoos. A broken cart is tilted against one wall like a lame pony shot and left to die.

It’s a long hall, but she finally finds the door she’s looking for: gray and ugly as the others with the words “NOT AN EXIT” stenciled in fading paint near the top. The knob is different here—a tarnished gold in contrast to the bland gray metal of the others. It’s locked, of course. She takes a breath, puts one hand on the sword strapped to her back, and phases through it. It’s always a wild sensation—feeling her body shift between physical planes—but she’s pretty used to it now.

When she comes into existence a fraction of a second later, she sees the guards. Two men in black suits stand on either side of a second door, clearly well-armed. At least they aren’t wearing sunglasses, she thinks. That would just be too much. As they jerk back at the shock of seeing her and reach for their guns, she knows if she had just phased a little farther, she might have avoided all this. Well, it’s hard to know where you’ll end up when you’re incorporeal.

She draws her sword and speed-charges into the one on the left, slicing into his gun arm so he drops his weapon. The second man shoots, but she’s already flashing away, streaking past him. She materializes behind him and slams the pommel of her sword into the base of his neck where it joins the spine, at the same time kicking at the back of his left knee. He topples like a felled tree.

The first man is going for his fallen gun with his uninjured arm. She speeds to him and hits the side of his head with the flat of her blade. He falls to his knees and she kicks the gun away, sliding it across the floor. “Don’t get up,” she says, brushing the edge of her blade over his shoulder. “I chose not to kill you, but I could change my mind.”

There’s a static buzz from the door and she looks up to see the round circle of a speaker near the very obvious security camera.

“You might as well kill them. They’re worthless now.”

She glares at the black metal mesh of the speaker. “Too afraid to come out and talk to me? You know I could just flash through that door.”

“You might be surprised by the result if you try,” the man says. “Cirilla of Nilfgaard, I presume?”

“Not Nilfgaard,” she says. “But I guess you know why I’m here.”

“My dear, I can only presume that you want something from me. The question is. Why should I ever give it to you?”

She straightens her shoulders and tries to project all of the bold confidence she can muster. “I can help you hurt Philippa Eilhart.”

Geralt gradually came back to himself, still lying on the crisp newly-laundered sheets of Regis’ bed. He thought of the white laundry tumbling in the row of huge silvery dryers. He thought of the long hall and the woman squaring herself for a fight with the quiet desperation that always seemed to drape over her. She was important, he knew, but his mind was too tangled to think of this now. The White Gull pulled him away, turning him slowly around and around like a flimsy sheet in a rolling drum.

The next day, Milva and Cahir arrived, looking grubby and tired, with the Fifth Seal of the Serpent of Thaylera. It looked like a cheap souvenir you’d pick up in a One Crown shop: a bronze disc badly cast in the image of writhing, barbed snake with the head of a snarling panther.

“Are you sure this is it?” Geralt asked as Regis unwrapped the linen covering and revealed it.

“It’d better fucking be,” Milva muttered.

They had all gathered in the little kitchen of Regis’ shop. Geralt sat unsteadily in a chair, head lolling back from time to time as the world seemed to move in waves of color. His journey down the steps, supported by Dandelion and Cahir, had been one of the longest of his life.

Milva stood in the doorway, oily hair pulled up in topknot, smelling faintly of airline pretzels and layers of deodorant. Cahir braced himself against the stove, looking similarly disheveled. He had pit stains on his button-up shirt and a thick layer of stubble on his chin. Angoulême sat cross-legged on the counter, holding a handful of incense sticks. Dandelion stood beside Angoulême, holding his arms low on his body and biting his bottom lip. He looked the most shook-up of all of them, Geralt thought, bless him. Artistic types were always more sensitive, but it still touched Geralt’s heart to see Dandelion’s distress.

Regis turned the disc over in his hand and revealed the symbol stamped on the opposite side. It did resemble a flower with petals shaped like claws and a pair of overlapping diamonds breaking from the center.

“That’s it,” Geralt said. “I think.” The image kept wavering and blurring before his eyes. He squinted until his eyes crossed.

Milva stifled a laugh.

“Let’s do this shit,” Angoulême said decisively, waving the incense sticks.

Geralt couldn’t keep track of what was going on, since his neck couldn’t seem to support his head properly half the time, and his vision focused and unfocused without warning. There were a lot of candles being lit, and incense too. At one point, Regis dropped the seal into a bowl with mixture of crushed herbs in a solution of honey and wine on a little tray table next to Geralt. Then he dabbed his fingers in the mixture and smeared them over Geralt’s forehead, circling there.

Regis spoke a long string of words in Elder Speech that was too fast for Geralt to translate. An itchy burn coiled at the back of Geralt’s throat, then slithered up into his nasal cavity and then through his brains. The inside of his head bubbled and boiled with a vengeance. He wanted to retch, but every time his abdomen tightened, it hurt too much and he couldn’t do it. Gradually, the pain eased, sliding out of him inch by inch. Geralt opened his eyes and saw Regis swaying in front of him. Regis’ eyes were screwed shut and his mouth was clenched tightly. While his right hand was still touching Geralt’s forehead, his left was resting in the bowl of herbs and wine. A skinny black line like an endless evil worm was creeping from the fingertips of one hand to the other, passing through his body. It coiled in the bowl, darkening the liquid. The black stream seemed to stretch on forever, but finally it thinned to a thread and then disappeared.

Regis lifted his hand from the bowl and the end of the thread slipped free, settling in the now pitch-black solution. Geralt wanted to pass out. The pain and terror hovering over him at all times had faded out of existence, leaving him strangely exhausted. Regis too looked like he could use a long sleep. He backed unsteadily into the stove next to Cahir.

“Is it done?” Milva said in a hushed voice.

“Yes,” Regis said. “Please, everyone, refrain from touching that bowl.”

Everyone seemed to breathe out relief at once. Milva hugged Cahir, blinking hard. Angoulême whooped loudly and punched Dandelion in the shoulder. He didn’t seem to mind; he was grinning so widely.

“Thanks, guys,” Geralt said weakly. “I’m still pretty loaded, but I know a bunch of heroes when I see them. You all made sacrifices for me and I can never repay you. I thought I didn’t have a family, but the way you came through for me makes me wonder if I was wrong.”

“Damn, Gramps, you’re sappy when you’re high,” Angoulême said.

Milva came in close and wrapped her arms around him.

“I wouldn’t want to lose my best drinking companion,” Dandelion said firmly.

“And you still have a lot to teach me before you kick the bucket,” Cahir asserted with a cocky grin.

Regis just exhaled a deep breath and gave Geralt a tired smile. “It was no trouble at all.”

As soon as the White Gull wore off and Geralt was able to stand and walk again, he took a long shower, shaved off his beard, and got back to work. There were several missed calls on his phone, including one terse voicemail from Yen asking him about the status of the Cirilla job. He decided to call her back first. It had been a while, after all.

“Geralt,” she said, answering after the first ring. “Where the hell have you been? Emhyr has been waiting for an update all this time. I told him to be patient, you’d get the job done. But it’s been months now.”

“Chill out,” Geralt said. “First of all, I said I’d look into it, that’s all. Second, I’ve been down for the count for a week now, thanks to your friends in the Lodge and their fun little curses. Third, you sent me blind into a snake pit. I did not sign up for vampires.”

“Vampires?” Yen said, sounding surprised and offended. “Well, that’s just wonderful. Did you at least track down Ciri?”

“Ran into her by accident,” Geralt said. “Oh, yeah, seems she knows me. She told me to tell you to stay away, so take that as you will. Then she disappeared. And I’ve been having crazy dreams about her lately, so thanks for that. You might have mentioned I had a connection to her too.”

“Yes, I should have,” Yen said. “I just didn’t want to complicate the situation more than necessary. I’d hoped you could just alert me to her location and I could talk to her myself.”

“I’m not going to run around in the dark anymore,” Geralt said. “If you want me to pursue her, you’d better give me a good reason why.”

Yen sighed into the phone. “I suppose the damage is already done, if the Lodge has attacked you.” She was silent long enough that he wondered if his phone had dropped the call. Then she said, “Ciri was our daughter. Not by birth. She was a child of destiny that you rescued more than once. You taught her witcher skills and I taught her magic.”

Geralt gaped. “I had a daughter?”

“For all intents and purposes. But she’s no ordinary child. She has immense powers as a result of ancient elven blood. She can move between places with her mind, destroy cities with her rage, and open gates between worlds. Her capability for immense destruction terrified me, so I did the only thing I could think of and brought her to the Lodge. They would train her as a sorceress and help her learn to control her powers.”

“I’m sure they did exactly that without any ulterior motives,” Geralt said dryly.

“Yes, well, I thought I could manage their influence on her if I was there too. Unfortunately, I underestimated Philippa Eilhart’s ambition. She plotted to use Ciri’s blood to create more sources of power and use them to advance the position of the Lodge. When we found out their plans to breed her like a brood mare and experiment on her children, we tried to get her out, but it didn’t end well. Philippa and the others would have killed us both, except Ciri and another sorceress interfered.”

“Let me guess,” Geralt said, “Red hair, nice rack?”

Yen paused. “You remember Triss?”

“I met her. She came to warn me about the Lodge. Wish I’d listened to her now.”

“Well, she and Ciri came up with a plan. Our lives would be spared if our memories were altered so that we no longer knew Ciri and wouldn’t pose a threat to the plans of the Lodge. It was a difficult bargain, but we agreed in the end, as we could never help Ciri if we were dead. Some time later, she managed to escape and she’s been eluding them ever since. Of course, we knew nothing of this. I only began to recover my memories years later, and I feared to tell you anything, knowing you’d charge off to save her again and probably get melted into a puddle of slime.”

Geralt thought back to the end of his time with Yen, her moodiness, her nightmares, and her refusal to talk to him about anything that troubled her. He’d felt she was drawing away from him, blocking him out.

“You should have told me,” he said. “You should have trusted me to listen to you and not make a stupid choice. Instead you shut me out and left me in the dark.”

“I thought it was for the best,” she said quietly. “I thought I could manage it on my own. I was wrong, Geralt. I see that now.”

Geralt closed his eyes and steadied his breathing. “Is she really Emhyr’s daughter?”

“It appears so. He was in disguise when he met her mother, so no one knew it was actually him. He’s the only reason I feel safe enough to find Ciri now. With the force of Nilfgaard behind me, maybe I can stand up to the Lodge this time.”

“And I was just your tracker?”

“Yes, I didn’t mean to involve you like this. But we were running out of options, and you’re the best.”

“Yen, the Lodge is not kidding around. Philippa had me trapped in pain and nightmares for days before my friends found a way to lift the curse. And that was just a warning shot. I can’t go through that again. I can’t put them through that again. Maybe this Ciri was important to me once, but those feelings are locked away now. I can’t help you with this, I’m sorry.”

“I understand,” she said, soft and low. “We’ll find another way.”

Back at Milva’s house, he was unsurprised to find that Cahir had been spending nights there. When Cahir appeared at breakfast, emerging from Milva’s room, Milva gave Geralt a hard look that challenged him to make a fuss. Eithné didn’t seem to mind, just patted the chair next to her and asked Cahir if he wanted strawberries on his pancakes. Geralt felt an internal kick of jealousy, but the sheepish expression on Cahir’s face eased it somewhat. They all pretended nothing was different. No one asked Geralt to move out. Cahir still had his cop job and his apartment. Geralt was still needed at the shop. And he still cooked dinner for them all most nights.

They did a few smaller jobs, hunting down some ghouls that had broken into a butcher shop and a pair of giant centipedes inhabiting a wine cellar. Geralt’s website had finally supplied some worthwhile leads and he got recommendations for other jobs too. It seemed like monsters were popping up everywhere these days. He hadn’t seen rotfiends outside of the sewers in a long time, but now they were running around the garbage dump and breaking into morgues. It was all Geralt and Milva could do to keep up with the creature sightings.

Regis didn’t leave for Nazair and Geralt was afraid to bring it up, as though reminding him about it might make it happen.

He stopped by Regis’ shop on Friday evening, when he knew Angoulême would probably be out on the town. There, he found the herbalist perched on a stool at the counter, studying a large book with faded pages and making notes in a tiny, neat hand on another sheet of paper.

“Geralt,” Regis said, with that same welcoming smile. “How are you feeling? No abdominal pain? Urine still clear?”

“I’m great,” Geralt said. “No organ damage as far as I can tell.” He leaned against the bar next to Regis. “Finding anything interesting?”

“Perhaps,” Regis said, pursing his lips. “The bird I mentioned, from the prophecy, leading the white wolf to its fate is not a raven, an oriole, or a speckled owl—the animal Philippa Eilhart transforms into. It appears to be a rare species of swallow, now extinct in these parts. That’s why I couldn’t translate the name.”

“Hmm, a swallow? Doesn’t mean anything to me,” Geralt admitted. “I guess I’ll stay on the lookout, though.”

Regis nodded. “Are there any herbs or alchemical elements I can procure for you today?”

“No,” Geralt said, trying to look casual and cool at the same time. “Actually, I came to ask you out. Are you interested in rock climbing?”

Regis’ eyebrows raised. “Rock climbing? Are you hunting harpies?”

“No, Regis,” Geralt fought back a laugh, “I’m trying to ask you out on a date. Forget rock climbing. You want to go to a wine tasting or walk around the botanical garden? Or we could go to a used bookstore, get a coffee and browse around.”

“A date?” Regis looked alarmed. “But why?”

Geralt felt his confidence sag, but he soldiered on. “I thought I’d made it pretty clear I was interested in you and it seemed like you might feel the same. Now I’m sober and you’re not looking after me anymore…” He tried a stab at levity. “If you don’t want to date, we can go straight to bed. I’m good with that too.”

“Oh dear,” Regis said, fingers gripping the counter. “I thought that was a passing folly for you. Geralt, you can’t possibly be interested in me in any romantic or sexual way.”

“Why not?” Geralt demanded, getting annoyed now. “You’re smart and sexy and kind. You’re the best person I know. Why wouldn’t I be attracted to you?”

Regis shook his head, looking pained. “I’m flattered, but it’s simply not possible. You…you’re still bound to Yennefer with the jinn’s magic. It wouldn’t work.”

“That’s bullshit,” Geralt protested. “Bond or not, it doesn’t change the way I feel about you. And if you’re worried about me running back to her when I’m with you, you don’t know me very well.”

“You are extremely loyal, I don’t doubt that,” Regis said. “I just know if you attempted to start a relationship with me, you would eventually regret it deeply.”

Geralt felt an edge of anger scraping through him. “Why do I sense you’re searching for excuses?” He moved closer. “Why don’t you just tell me you don’t feel it? Just tell me you’re not interested. No thanks, Mr. Witcher.” He watched Regis’ mouth twist silently as he struggled for words. “Yeah, you can’t because you know I’d smell a lie. You want me as much as I want you, and you’re scared. You’re desperate to find another reason to turn me down.”

“You are remarkably perceptive, as always,” Regis said stiffly. “Can you simply accept my refusal and allow us to return to the terms of our friendship?”

Geralt laid a hand over Regis’ on the counter. He felt a tremor run through Regis, watched him duck his head away and swallow hard. Geralt’s other hand stroked up the side of Regis’ face, fingers brushing from his jaw to his temple. Regis’ eyes closed. Geralt leaned in and kissed his forehead, the corner of his eye, and the shell of his ear. “Be with me,” he whispered.

“Please don’t do this,” Regis breathed.

Geralt stilled, then lifted away, removing his hands. He stood there for a long time, looking at Regis. So close and so far. “Okay,” he said slowly, pushing everything down deep. “I can take no for an answer. You don’t have to give me a reason.” He felt like his chest was cracking open from his throat to his belly. “And I’m sorry I didn’t listen. Thanks for putting up with me anyway.”

He turned to leave, hoping Regis would say something. But he didn’t. And Geralt walked out of the shop wanting to jump in a deep river and sink away.

Fortunately, Dandelion called soon after that with big job, a welcome distraction. Anna Henrietta had a haunting and it required the utmost confidentiality. The second time Geralt visited the governor’s mansion, he brought Milva along. Cahir had to work, but Milva promised to send him text updates.

They got through the first check point and parked the car in the visitor lot, but on their way though the gate, they were stopped by the head of security, a huge bald man with an enormous moustache. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

“Job for the governor,” Geralt said shortly. “We have an invitation.”

“Really? The lady didn’t clear it with me.”

Dandelion popped out from around the corner. “Damien, they’re with me.”

The security guy gave him a long look and Geralt got the distinct impression that he was not a fan of Dandelion’s presence there in the mansion. “I didn’t hear anything from the governor.”

“Shall I call her?” Dandelion asked, holding up his phone with a hint of a threat. “We spoke about their visit this morning. Perhaps her ladyship is simply too busy with duties of state to inform you of every single visitor. Perhaps she expects that you’ll trust my judgement.”

Damien scowled but let them pass, eyes burning holes in their backs.

“He’s not all bad,” Dandelion said. “Just very protective of his mistress. I can’t blame him for treasuring her.”

“All right, what’s all this about?” Milva asked. “Are we dealing with specters? Wraiths?”

“I don’t know,” Dandelion admitted. “I only know that my dearest has been deeply troubled as of late. She insists that her dead sister has come back to haunt her, and I have to admit that the signs are ominous.”

The graceful, white layers of the mansion loomed before them. It was built with tall, pale pillars and a roof of undulating golden-brown tiles. Flower-filled pots spilled color from the terraces and balconies. The drive was lined with neatly trimmed citrus trees. Dandelion brought them around the veranda draped in festive wreaths and garlands. “If we can get this all resolved before the winter celebrations, we’d very much appreciate it.”

The entered through a huge, many-paned door lined with shining copper paneling. The main salon stretched before them, gleaming in the early afternoon light. Flourishing potted plants and miniature trees were placed in regular intervals. Regis would know what they all were, Geralt thought. A stab of unhappiness jabbed into him.

Dandelion led them up a wide, winding staircase, chattering all the way about the architecture of the house. Geralt had to admit it was nice, and when they got to the second floor, the view out of the long windows made him blink and look twice. Rolling green hills were patterned with wide fields and a neat patchwork of gardens and vineyards that continued down, down, to the glittering blue waters of Lake Seidhe Llydad far below.

The entered a room ornately decorated with what looked like heirlooms from times past. A silver tea set with hints of tarnish sat on a low table. A few medals and trophies were displayed in glass cases. Portraits lined the walls, filled with severe faces. Geralt didn’t recognize any of them except for the large one at the center with a family of four. The woman on the right was clearly a young Anna Henrietta. There was no mistaking those bright chestnut curls and delicate nose. Even the way she looked at the photographer said, “I’m the one who’s paying your salary, pleb.” Seated next to her was a pretty dark-haired girl around the same age. Their mother and father stood behind them, a typical older rich couple. His hair had completely receded, but he had a nurtured his wispy beard to a fine point. She wore pearl earrings and heavy makeup.

“My dear little weasel and her family,” Dandelion said.

Milva raised an eyebrow. “You call her weasel?”

“Let’s get down to business,” Geralt said. “What’s going on here?”

Dandelion shifted from one foot to the other. “It started two weeks ago. A maid found a message scrawled on the wall just over there.” He pointed to the space under the family portrait. “It looked like dried blood, but we didn’t confirm it.” I took a picture because I wanted to show the police, but Anrietta ordered it scrubbed off.”

He pulled out his phone and tapped open his photos. The picture showed two lines of red-brown words scrawled with a bold hand: DEAREST SISTER, THE DEAD NEVER FORGET. THE DEAD NEVER FORGIVE.

“Guessing her sister is dead,” Geralt said dryly.

“Yes, Sylvia Anna passed away when they were both teens. She was the elder by almost two years.”

“You said it started with this one,” Milva said. “Were there more messages?”

“Two more,” Dandelion said, swiping to the photos on his phone. “This one was on the wall in her office.” It was longer and tilted sideways to the carpet. THE TIME OF RECKONING FOR COWARDS AND LIARS IS HERE. LITTLE SPIDER GOT CAUGHT IN HER OWN WEB. SHE DIES ALONE.

“And this one was left on the walls of our bedroom, while we were sleeping. Last night.” A short, terse phrase: WHO’S CRAZY NOW, BITCH?

“Needless to say, I was terrified,” Dandelion continued. “The doors to each of these rooms were locked at the time the messages were left. I locked the bedroom from the inside myself. I can’t think how any earthly person could have entered, especially without waking us. And that’s not all. A barrel of expensive wine was upended all over our dining room and rolled out through the hall. Then my darling’s precious necklace was stolen and in its place was left a lock of black hair.”

“So…” Milva pondered. “Either we’re dealing with a very nimble, vengeful ghost, or her sister’s still alive, or someone has put together a complicated plan to make her to think the sister is haunting her.”

“Good summary,” Geralt agreed. “Notice anything interesting about the different messages?”

“Different handwriting,” Milva said. “The first and third could have been the same person, but the one in the office looked curlier. Different people are writing them or someone is working really hard to write a different way.”

“We’ll make a detective of you yet,” Geralt said. He studied the wall below the painting, crouched to rub his finger over the strip of trim above the carpet. “Wish you had called us before it was cleaned up. Not any clues left now.”

Dandelion nodded. “Anrietta didn’t want to contact anyone. She thought if she visited her sister’s grave and spoke to her and made offerings, the messages might cease. Alas, that has not been the case.”

“Well, obviously we’ll have to talk to the governor herself,” Geralt said. “If this is a family beef, we need all the details.”

“Of course,” Dandelion said. “She’s in a meeting now but will join us as soon as it ends.”

“Any idea how the sister died?” Milva asked.

“It’s a tragic story,” Dandelion said. “She was relegated to a mental institution when she was seventeen. She lived there for two years and passed away suddenly. Anrietta was only able to see her a handful of times before her death.”

“But what killed her?” Milva demanded.

“That, I cannot say,” Dandelion admitted. “I hesitate to press my beloved on such a sensitive subject.”

“All right, we’ll press her then,” Geralt said.

Dandelion brought them back downstairs to the salon and mixed some cocktails while they discussed the case.

“Feels like a human prank,” Milva said. “But humans don’t move through locked doors. Maybe Anrietta is sleep-walking and doing this shit herself? Maybe she’s possessed? Could she have a hym, like Vivienne?”

“Then the handwriting would be hers, or at least be consistent,” Geralt pointed out. “But I like the way you’re thinking.”

After a short time, Anna Henrietta swept in wearing a pink blouse over a black pencil skirt. “Welcome,” she said grandly to Geralt and Milva. “Thank you for taking the time to look into my trouble.”

“After the way you reacted last time when I exorcised the hym, I didn’t think you’d want me back,” Geralt said.

“I didn’t,” she responded bluntly. “But desperate times are upon us. If my sister is haunting me, I must bring her to peace.”

“Then you’d better tell us everything about Sylvia Anna,” Geralt said, “and why she might hold a grudge.”

Anna Henrietta took a seat on the chair next to Milva. Dandelion handed her an amber drink that she held lightly. “We called her Syanna. She was adopted because my parents thought they were barren. Syanna came from a…troubled family. Her birth mother was a fisstech addict and part-time prostitute. Her father was a career criminal. Even though Syanna was just a young baby when they adopted her, I think my parents still feared that her genes would bear bad fruit. Then new fertility treatments came on the market and they were able to conceive me a year later, with the help of a surrogate. After I was born, it was clear who the favorite was. I looked like them, I behaved like them, and they put all their expectations on me. However, when I was alone with my sister, we could be two hellions together.”

She took a long drink and looked out the window. “I loved Syanna. She was my world. But you know how sisters can be. We squabbled and competed over the most trivial things. I see now that she was jealous of the attention that our parents gave me. Whenever something went wrong, they automatically blamed her. Once, when we were eight and ten, we got in a fist fight over a cheap toy crown. I hit her in the stomach and she pushed me down. We were both swinging, but I was the only who lost a tooth. My parents acted like she was a rabid wild beast. I took advantage of my privilege as the favored daughter. Every time we got caught in some mischief, I stayed silent and she took the consequences. Eventually, she stopped trusting me.”

Her thumb rubbed a bead of condensation, smearing it over the glass. “She liked to play with people’s emotions. Maybe it gave her power that she couldn’t get any other way. When she was fifteen, she convinced our housekeeper to invest her life savings in a decrepit copper mine. When she was sixteen, she manipulated two boys at our school into fighting over her in the parking lot. One of them got a concussion and suffered permanent brain damage.  It amused her to control the fates of others. Perhaps it made her own problems seem smaller. She was failing out of school, going to wild parties, starting fights, stealing. Acting out was the only way she could get our parents’ attention, I think. When I got a perfect score on my college prep exam, our parents gave me a beautiful jeweled necklace called the Heart of Toussaint. It had been in our family for ages and was traditionally given to the oldest daughter on her wedding day.”

“Guessing big sis didn’t take it very well,” Milva surmised.

“She stole it and tried to flush it down the toilet,” Anna Henrietta said with half a smile. “I don’t blame her for being angry now, but back then I just saw myself as the victim of my delinquent older sister’s jealousy. My parents thought she was mentally disturbed. They’d treated her like a potential criminal her whole life and she fulfilled their expectations because of that treatment. When she slept with my boyfriends, deleted my homework, and took my necklace, I called her crazy, insane, psychotic. I’d heard my parents use those words and I knew they hurt her and made my parents even more suspicious.”

“So, then they put her in a looney bin,” Geralt finished. “You didn’t visit much, Dandelion mentioned.”

“She didn’t want to see me. She screamed that I was the one that got her there, that I’d abandoned her. At the time I was too busy playing the put-upon martyr to sympathize with her. Besides, I didn’t know how to respond. I knew I was at least partly responsible for her commitment, and I didn’t want to confront that. I knew she wasn’t crazy, but I couldn’t speak up. I thought it might be good for her to have some mental health treatment. But at the time, I didn’t know that the wretched establishment was plagued with patient abuse and mistreatment. The scandal came out later, but it was too late for my sister. She was already dead.”

“How?” Geralt asked.

“They told us it was a pulmonary embolism, a blot clot, but there was no autopsy. More likely she died of abuse or suicide.” Anna Henrietta pressed her hand to her head, lifted her glass to partially hide her face. “I never got a chance to apologize. I tried to tell my parents later all the things I was thinking, all the guilt I carried. But they wanted to forget everything. In their minds, they had already buried her, long before she was dead.”

“Did you see the body?” Milva asked, and Geralt thought, Atta girl.

“No, it was already cremated when we went to pick her up.”

“Convenient if you’re trying to hide injuries,” Geralt said, “or the corpse’s identity.”

 Anna Henrietta looked puzzled. “Who else would it be?”

“Another burnt body, a cremated dog, ashes from the fireplace…” he trailed off. “Tell me, what convinced you those messages were from your sister’s ghost and not someone pretending to be her? I imagine there are plenty of people who could dig into your past and try to freak you out.”

Anna Henrietta set her glass down. “Dandelion’s already showed you the messages? The reference to me as a spider…she used to call me that when she was angry. And the message to ‘forgive and forget.’ No one else would know that I had anything to forgive regarding that time.”

“No one else could have looked up this information?” Milva questioned.

“Not that I know of,” Anna Henrietta shrugged. “She didn’t keep a journal, as far as I know.”

“She might have told someone at the mental health institution,” Dandelion piped up.

“That still doesn’t explain how the person got in and out of the rooms,” Anna Henrietta said, starting to look impatient.

Milva tapped her fingers against her glass. “Does your housekeeper or security guy have keys to the rooms?”

“Maybe the office and portrait room, but not my bedroom. It was bolted from the inside. And so were all the windows.”

“Good,” Geralt said. “So, we’re looking for something that can move through walls. Obviously, wraiths and other specters can do it. But, in my experience, they’re not sentient enough to write messages after death. So that leaves either someone sneaking through a secret passage or a kind of vampire that can turn into mist.”

“Or two,” Milva pointed out. “Different handwriting styles.”

“It’s certainly not Syanna’s handwriting,” Anna Henrietta admitted. “But why would a vampire want to terrorize me?” She clapped a hand to her throat. “Could Syanna have become a vampire?”

“That’s not the way it works,” Geralt said. “Vampires are born, not made. Humans can’t become them, despite what all the stories say.” He stood up and set his half-finished drink on the counter. “Can we see the bedroom?”

They trekked back up the stairs to the luxurious bedroom suite complete with gold trim and an enormous walk-in closet. The bed was a tangle of heather-colored satin sheets and white blankets. The bloody message still covered most of the far wall in wide, blocky letters: WHO’S CRAZY NOW, BITCH? Geralt inhaled deeply through his nose. Perfume tinged with rose and gardenia, delicate laundry detergent, a man’s cologne, faint traces of wine, and the coppery edge of blood.

“Any attacks reported on your grounds?” Geralt asked. “Anyone with bite wounds or any torn animal corpses found? Someone definitely wrote this in blood.”

Anna Henrietta shook her head. “I haven’t done a survey, but no one’s reported anything like that to me. Best check with Damian de la Tour, my chief of security.”

Geralt leaned in close to the brownish, dripped words. “Looks like a small finger was used to write it. You can see the thin marks of a long nail. Either a woman or a man with small hands. From the stretches between the letters, it was done quickly. They probably didn’t want to wake you.”

“I’m glad they didn’t,” Dandelion said. “I certainly wouldn’t want to meet a vampire.”

Geralt looked at the floor, enhanced his vision. Drops of blood spotted the carpet. Faint impressions remained in the pale fibers. “Small feet stood here,” he said. “Bare feet. Smaller than you or Dandelion. Either your maid walks around barefoot, or there was definitely a stranger standing here, not a ghost.” He followed the impressions to the wall by the balcony. They stopped at the glass doors. “I’m guessing these were locked too.”

“Certainly,” Dandelion said. “I checked all the doors before we went to bed.”

“Looks like your visitor smoked through the wall and went out via the balcony,” Geralt said. “I’ll head out to this side of the house.

“Dandelion and I have a charity luncheon to attend soon,” Anna Henrietta said crisply. “But I trust you’ll keep us updated on your findings.”

Milva looked annoyed, but Geralt just nodded. “We could be tracking for a while. I’ll text Dandelion if I have any questions for you.” He was eager to get outside the house before the trail got any colder.

Below the balcony, a flower garden curved a half-moon on the lawn. It was filled with yellow-orange mollyarrow and purple wolfsbane. Geralt studied the pillars that supported the balcony. Smooth but not unscalable. He stalked around looking for tracks.

“Over here,” Milva said. She pointed to something in the grass.

Geralt squatted and peered at the gleam of dark glass. The scent of blood filled his nose. “Looks like we found the ink the visitor used. Careless of them to drop it here.”

“You said they were in a hurry,” Milva reminded him.

Geralt picked the glass jar carefully out of the grass.

“Shouldn’t you be wearing gloves?” Milva asked. “There might be fingerprints.”

“You think your boyfriend is gonna find the fingerprints of a vampire in his criminal database?”

“Okay, no,” Milva grumbled.

Geralt inhaled the scent of the blood again. “This way,” he said. “A faint scent trail but better than nothing. They must have spilled a little on themselves.”

They found the lid of the jar a few yards to the right and followed the scent trail around the mansion toward the pool house, catching the occasional footprint in the damp ground. When they reached the pool house, the trail faded out. Geralt walked around sniffing deeply while Milva searched for footprints.

From the corner of his eye, Geralt caught a flash of dark wings. He turned quickly, but it was just his familiar companion, the nosy raven flying away to the south. It looked like a messenger of death. “Somebody’s spying.”

“What?” Milva followed his gaze.

“Maybe it’s just Yen keeping tabs on me, but I don’t like being watched.”

Milva shrugged. “Could come in handy if you ever get in trouble.”

“That’s the excuse the government uses too,” Geralt grumbled.

Milva laughed. “Now you sound like Angoulême.”

In the distance, a big man was coming toward them with a quick, purposeful stride—the security team leader with the mustache. He approached rapidly, looking furious. “Excuse me!” He called out to them.

“Hey,” Geralt said. “Damien, right? You notice anyone out and about last night? A small, thin person. Maybe in a cloak, maybe naked.”

“What the hell are you doing here?” Damien growled. “I thought you were supposed to be visiting with her ladyship and Mr. Dandelion.”

“They had a luncheon,” Milva said. “We got permission to look around the grounds, though.”

“Look for what?” Damien demanded.

“I told you,” Geralt said. “A smallish person. Probably a thin woman. Dark hair, most likely. Scary eyes.”

Damien’s nose flared. “And what is your purpose?”

“Confidential,” Milva said in a clipped voice. “You can take it up with the governor, if you want. But if you answer our questions, we can get out of here a lot faster.”

Damien’s eyes passed back and forth between the two of them. His jaw worked rapidly. “There was a report of a dark figure on the grounds last night. One of my men gave pursuit. But he lost them over by the orange grove.” He pointed to a cluster of trees to the west. “He said it looked like a woman in a cloak moving at a high speed. Even claimed she’d turned to mist. I told him no more night shifts.”

“Thanks,” Geralt said. “One more thing: has anyone on staff reported any attacks where they might have lost blood? Or have you noticed any butchered animals on the grounds?”

The bald man looked astonished. “No,” he said at last. “Is there a potentially dangerous person or persons my team should be aware of?”

“We’re looking into it,” Geralt said. “For the moment, it sounds like no one is currently in danger. We appreciate your cooperation. I’ll tell the governor you’ve been very helpful.”

Damien nodded stiffly and watched them walk away.

The orange grove consisted of about a dozen scruffy looking trees with no fruit in sight. Geralt and Milva circled it and soon located a pair of bare footprints. They were pointing toward the north. Further on, a throng of lilac bushes sent out a profusion of dark heart-shaped leaves. Geralt and Milva poked around located a dark cloak tangled at the base of one bush. Milva lifted it up. The material was thick and of good quality. Possibly a fine wool. Inside one of the deep pockets they found a small key and a folded piece of paper. It was slightly damp, but the material of the cloak had protected it from the light rain the night before.

Milva unfolded it and they both peered the diagram. It was obviously a map of the mansion with the main bedroom circled in red ink. At the top of the page, someone had written the words WHO’S CRAZY NOW, BITCH?

“A reference for our messenger,” Geralt said. He snapped a photo of it with his phone and sent it to Dandelion with the text Does your weasel recognize this handwriting?

“Why does a vampire who can move through walls need a key?” Milva asked.

“Maybe it’s not a key to a door.”

Chapter Text

After they couldn’t pick up the trail again, Milva and Geralt decided to bring the jar of blood to Regis and see if he could pick up any clues. He was on the rooftop of the shop, kneeling and trying bunches of herbs into bundles on a stretch of canvas. He looked up at their approach, hair tousled by the wind. A sharp pang of longing shot through Geralt’s gut.

“Milva and Geralt! I didn’t expect to see you today. I thought you’d be at the governor’s mansion.”

“We were,” Milva said. She took the jar out of her pocket where it was wrapped up in a plastic bag. “We’re tracking a punk who’s leaving messages in blood and we found this.” She opened the bag and took it out. “We hoped maybe you could figure out what kind of blood it is and anything else you can find out.”

Regis stood and picked the jar out of her hand. He examined the thick smear of blood inside. “It’s partially dried so it was not shed recently.”

“It was liquid last night,” Geralt said.

“I see.” Regis studied it for a minute more. “Well, I can try some tests. Please come downstairs and make yourselves comfortable.”

As he followed Milva and Regis down the stairs, Geralt’s phone buzzed. He had a message from Dandelion: It’s Syanna’s writing. Where did you find it?

“The plot thickens,” Geralt murmured, with a rush of satisfaction.

Downstairs, they settled at the bar and filled Regis in on the details of their investigation while Regis heated some mysterious liquids on his stove. He pulled some glass vials out of the cupboard. “I don’t know if this procedure will work on blood this old, but it is our best possibility for locating the source.”

Geralt watched his steady, sure movements, the precision of his quick hands. He wanted to walk up behind Regis and wrap his arms around him, push his face into Regis’ hair. Geralt dropped his head and blew out a gust of breath. Why do I always fall for people I can’t have? he wondered.

Milva was looking at her phone. “I updated Cahir and he says he’s doing some research on some cases that may be connected. I have to be home when Eithné’s bus arrives. Can you guys let me know what you find out?” She slid off her stool and grabbed her bag.

“Sure,” Geralt said flatly, already dreading the awkward, agonizing experience of being alone with Regis.

“Take care, Milva,” Regis said.

As Milva left with a wave, Geralt asked, “Where’s Angoulême today?”

“She accepted an invitation to some sort of video game gathering,” Regis said. “She requested that I not wait up for her.”

“Awesome,” Geralt said. The door clanged shut and they were the only ones in the shop.

Regis stayed facing away from him, watching the pot on the stove. Wisps of smoke drifted around him. He had rolled up the sleeves of his thick, white cable-knit sweater. The hair at the back of his neck curled up slightly. He hummed quietly to himself.

“Does the test take a while?” Geralt asked, only because he couldn’t bear it any more.

“Maybe thirty minutes,” Regis said, still looking at the stove. “You’re welcome to come back later. Or I can send you the results of what I’ve learned.”

“Or you could turn around and talk to me like a normal person,” Geralt said, more sharply than he meant.

Regis turned, features relaxed, eyes cool. “Have I offended you? You seemed uncomfortable and I simply don’t want to inconvenience you.”

“Yeah, I’m uncomfortable,” Geralt said roughly. “But it’s my fault, isn’t it? I tried to make us something we aren’t. I misread what you wanted, and now I have to endure this tension until it all passes and we can be normal again. I’ll handle it.”

“Does it pass?” Regis asked in a low voice. “Does it usually go away with time?”

“Well, it gets easier…as long as you don’t use elemental magic to force a bond,” Geralt said dryly. “Don’t worry about me, Regis. I’m a big boy. I’ve been through a few rejections.”

Regis put his hand on the frame of the kitchen entryway. He looked up to the corner where the cedar beams joined together. “I’m not worried about you getting over it,” he said quietly. “It’s natural to move from one partner to another, over time. Humans are emotionally resilient.”

Geralt watched his movements carefully. “You say that like you’re not. Haven’t you had many partners?”

“No,” Regis said with a little smile. “I’ve been rather solitary for many years. I forgot how intensely, exquisitely pleasurable and painful it can be to form a connection…” He paused and seemed to notice how much steam was coming off the stove.

Regis went back to the pot and added a sprinkle of beige powder. He stirred it steadily, lifting the spoon periodically to check the texture.

Geralt got off his stool and went into the kitchen to see the contents of the pot. “It looks like gray sludge.”

“It’s bloodroot, hops, alcohol, and a few other alchemical elements.” Regis used a tiny spoon to scrape the remaining blood out of the jar and stir it in. “Once the mixture is complete, we should be able to get an impression of the source of the blood, if all goes well. But it takes time for the elements to combine.” He turned the stove to a low setting. “Let’s allow it to simmer.”

Geralt was beginning to regret coming in for a closer look. This proximity to Regis was making him simmer. He tried to subtly back away and turned his body to the side, pretending to look at the racks of dried plants, syrups, and powders. “You made all these yourself?”

“Most of them,” Regis said. “Some I had to order in. Zerrikanian scaleweed simply won’t grow in this climate.”

Geralt scanned the colorful collection of jars in their neat rows—blue glass, golden-brown syrup, tiny orange seeds, gray-green leaf fragments, dark purple petals. He picked up a plastic container of what appeared to be small neon-green pebbles. “What’s this?” He turned to show it to Regis and froze.

Black eyes, hungry eyes on him, heavy with unspoken want. Regis hadn’t moved, but it felt as though his hot breath was all over Geralt. Then Regis’ eyes shifted down to the object in Geralt’s hand and the heat was gone. “Geledon seeds.” His voice was almost even, almost normal. “Rather bitter…but an interesting texture for the palette.”

“Regis,” Geralt said tersely. “Why are we doing this? I know I said I didn’t need a reason, but this feels insane. I’m gonna burst into flames soon, if you keep looking at me like that.”

Regis looked like he wanted to back out of the kitchen and onto the street. He wrapped his arms around himself and turned his head into his shoulder. “I didn’t intend to look at you in any untoward manner.”

Geralt set the container of seeds on the counter with too much force. “You don’t have to keep pretending.”

“Yes, I do,” Regis said, still not looking at him.

“Why? What would happen if you stopped?” Geralt demanded. “What would happen if you just did what you wanted to?”

Regis’ chest moved with a heavy breath. His arms fell to his sides, hands clenching against the front of his thighs. “It would be the end of everything,” he said, soft and strained. His head came up slowly, eyes wide and pleading.  “But if I could have a moment… Just one more moment.”

Geralt didn’t understand the words, but he recognized the longing. “You can have all the moments,” he said, opening his arms wide.

Regis moved across the floor in three long steps. He went to Geralt like a freezing man finding shelter, slung both arms around Geralt’s neck, and pressed close to him, face fitting perfectly into the crook of Geralt’s neck. His breath shuddered against Geralt’s skin and his entire frame trembled slightly. Geralt’s arms were tight around Regis, one hand on his lower back, one cupping the back of his head. They said nothing, just stayed folded around each other, listening to the soft hiss of the decoction on the stove and the brush of wind against the windows. Gradually, Regis’ body relaxed. His breathing slowed. His lips and nose brushed against Geralt’s skin.

“What do you want?” Geralt whispered. His chest was hot and tight. His skin was singing.

Regis shifted his head so his mouth was at Geralt’s ear. “I just want to remember this,” he said, very quiet. “I shall preserve it and lock it in glass and years later take it out and remember everything: the scent of orange leaves on your shirt, the feel of your muscles and bones on mine, the sound of your voice when you ask me, ‘What do you want?’”

“And how about the taste?” Geralt murmured, tipping Regis’ head up to his.

But Regis twisted away, dropped his arms and pushed back against Geralt’s chest. “That’s enough.” His voice was harsh.

For a few seconds, Geralt was so stunned, he couldn’t make his body release Regis. Then he remembered himself and let go, gritting his teeth. “How can that possibly be enough?”

“You’re right,” Regis said fiercely, backing away. “It will never be enough. That’s why I can’t.”

Geralt clamped down on the firestream of emotions crackling through him. “All right, I see,” he said, exhaling. “You just wanted a hug, no making out. That’s fine. I like cuddling too.”

Regis looked away. “Thank you for indulging me.”

Geralt sighed. “Regis, I will indulge the shit out of you. Anytime.”

In his pocket, his phone buzzed insistently. He pulled it out and saw Cahir was calling. “What’s up?” If his was rougher than usual, Cahir didn’t seem to notice.

“I talked to Milva and I did a little research into the facility Sylvia Anna stayed at.”

“There was some kind of abuse scandal,” Geralt said, fighting to remember what Anna Henrietta had said. “Hang on, I’m putting you on speaker phone so Regis can hear this too.” He tapped his screen and set the phone on the counter.

“Yeah, it was big news about ten years ago,” Cahir said, voice projected through the kitchen. “At least two staff members were sexually assaulting patients there. Others were accused of negligence, not reporting abuse, and taking patients’ meds. The facility tried to cover it up, even falsifying patient records to make them seem like compulsive liars, but we eventually closed the place down.”

“Did they ever cover up deaths?” Geralt asked

“There were a few families who claimed healthy patients died there under mysterious circumstances, but it was impossible to prove after they were cremated.”

“I see,” Geralt said. “Thanks for the info.”

“That’s not all,” Cahir said. “The two staff members facing charges of sexual abuse were both murdered violently about two years after the facility closed. One was awaiting a re-trial and the other was in prison. They both had gashes in their throats, sliced vocal cords, and cuts all over their bodies. They bled out slowly.”

“And nobody saw or heard anything?” Geralt asked, already knowing the answer.

“Absolutely nothing. The first man was killed in his bed while his wife was drinking coffee on the patio. The second was killed in his locked jail cell while his cellmate slept in the bottom bunk. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Does if you’re a powerful vampire who can turn invisible and move through walls. Maybe he or she can put people to sleep too.”

“Yes,” Regis said, “It’s possible. Different higher vampires have different powers.”

“Great,” Cahir muttered. “And then there’s the other three.”

“Three?” Regis said incredulously.

“Three other former employees at the facility. They faced accusations of negligence and cover-ups, but none were ever convicted. However, they all died around the same time, with bites to their throats and deep wounds on their torsos. One had her leg torn off. All suffered exsanguination.”

“So, different from the first two,” Geralt summed up. “Messier, more vicious. These vampires drank deeply from their victims.”

“Seems like it,” Cahir said. “And there were messages written in blood at each of the three scenes. They were all some variation on ‘you get what you deserve.’ It makes me wonder if Anna Henrietta is marked to be the next victim.”

“With her, it’s personal,” Geralt said. “Someone is putting a lot of work into scaring her first. Let’s hope they take their time and draw it out a little longer so we can find them.”

“Yeah,” Cahir agreed. “Have you learned anything from the blood sample?”

“The decoction will be ready soon,” Regis said. “I will apply it to my instrument and hopefully we will get a clear impression of its source, although I cannot promise anything. After that, I will attempt to calibrate an object to track the person or animal the blood came from. It’s not terribly precise but should point us in the right direction, if the sample isn’t extensively degraded.”

“Perfect,” Cahir said. “You’re a wizard, Regis. Wish we had you down here working forensics. Geralt, I’ll meet you at Milva’s as soon as my shift ends.”

“See you then,” Geralt said, and ended the call.

Regis busied himself with unrolling parchment paper and keeping it flat on the counter with four jars holding down the corners. He sprinkled it with a fine power and rubbed it in with a stiff horsehair brush. Then turned the heat off on the stove and checked the consistency of the mixture again. “It needs time to cool.”

“How does this work?” Geralt asked, mostly to distract himself from the things he really wanted to say and do to Regis.

“It separates out different identifying components in the blood and arranges them in a pattern which should be evident on this treated parchment.” Regis gestured to his set-up on the table. “The arrangement of the different elements should identify at least the species we are looking for. Of course, you know everyone has a unique DNA signature. The procedure can only identify some crucial elements of the DNA. However, if the sample quality is high enough, I can apply it to an enchanted locating device that will signal the direction of the individual from whom the blood came.”

“Okay,” Geralt said. “That’s pretty fucking awesome.” He wished he’d met Regis decades ago, before all the slogs and scars and frustrations of trails gone cold. He wished he’d known him from the beginning.

They had to wait a while for the heated herbs to cool enough to pour into the twisted contraption of glass tubes. Regis tipped it into a bowl and put it in the fridge, then led Geralt around one of his bookshelves, showing him old bestiaries and books of potions. Geralt flipped through them, snapping pictures with his phone when he saw something really interesting.

“How did you learn about monsters?” Regis asked him.

“School of the Wolf,” Geralt said, wincing at the memory. “It was supposed to be a military school for gifted orphan boys. I was one of the stronger boys. That’s why they picked me for the trials. They told me I was going to be a superhero.” He traced the black words on the yellowed page in front of him. “They didn’t tell me that over half the boys died after taking the mutagens.”

Regis leaned in closer to him. “Was it a terrible place to grow up?”

“No,” Geralt said. “It was a different world, but it was my world. We spent our days training with weapons and reading about nightmare creatures and practicing potions and signs. My mentor, Vesemir was very kind to me, considering. But he only knew that world too. It was a small place. There were no choices for us. We were going to be witchers and nothing else.” He’d never talked to anyone about this before, not even Yen. It felt terrifying.

“Did you want to be something else?” Regis asked in that quiet way.

“Never,” Geralt said. “I felt like it was my destiny. Only now I sometimes look back and think it could have been different. Some witchers leave the path, adopt families, make another life. I’m too old for it now. I spent too much time pretending I was a superhero. I’m just gonna die working a job, like all the other old witchers.”

“You don’t have to,” Regis told him. “You can still take Milva and Eithné and leave, like I said. Make a new life far away.”

“Then I’d have to bring Cahir because he wouldn’t leave Milva, and Dandelion would come but insist on taking Anna Henrietta, and she’d take Vivienne, and Angoulême needs to be protected, and of course, I’d want you there too.” His mouth twisted into a wry smile. “That’s the problem with having too many people you care about. Roach just isn’t big enough for all of us. I guess we gotta stay here and ride it out.”

He texted Milva on his way out. Blood is from a human woman. Regis is making a tracker for us to find her.

When he got home, he found Milva, Cahir, and Eithné all hard at work on a craft project. Spread newspaper pages covered the living room floor. The three of them sat, spreading glue on strips of cloth. In the center of the floor sat a pair of jars that appeared to be full of sparkly glitter.

Geralt did a double take. “Is that my silver dust?”

“Yup,” Milva said, evening out the glue on her cloth strip. “We’re making vampire-repelling collars.”

“So vampires won’t bite us,” Eithné explained.

“Fancy,” Geralt said. “You know how much that silver costs, right?”

“Anna Henrietta will reimburse us,” Milva assured him.

“Besides, not all us have your skills,” Cahir said. “We need a little extra armor in a fight.”

“None of you are going to fight vampires,” Geralt said. He leveled his gaze at Eithné. “Especially not you, young lady.”

Eithné giggled. “Geralt, we’re just pretending to fight vampires. They’re not real. Don’t be scared.”

“Thanks, Eith,” Geralt said. “Can you go check and see if we have any cans of tuna in the pantry? I’d like to make some tuna melt sandwiches tonight.”

“Yum!” Eithné said, jumping to her feet and scampering into the next room.

“We’re following that tracker with you,” Milva said. “You don’t know what you’re gonna find. If it’s a nest of vampires, we need to be prepared.”

“It will probably just be a shallow grave at the end of a county road,” Geralt argued. “There’s no point in all of us tramping all over the countryside.”

Eithné came sprinting back into the room, skirt whipping against her legs. “We have three cans! Plenty for everyone. Can I help you make the tuna melts?”

“Definitely,” Geralt assured her. “I just have to make a phone call to a friend.”

He was halfway to the stairs when the doorbell rang. Eithné ran to the door and Geralt paused to see who it was.

“Greetings!” Dandelion called out. “A fine evening to you all.” Eithné led him into the living room, holding his hand tightly in hers. Dandelion was wearing shiny burgundy pants and a loose white shirt with a deep V-neck collar. “Thank you, my dear. It’s been too long since I visited your lovely home.”

He glanced over the interior of the living room. “I see you’re working on a fashion project.”

“Vampire repellers,” Eithné explained, swinging Dandelion’s hand in hers.

“What are you here for?” Geralt asked, confused.

“I called and let him know what was going on,” Milva said. “He wanted to go with us.”

“Absolutely not,” Geralt thundered. “I’m doing this on my own. That’s it.”

“As it appears that Syanna still lives, the least I can do for my beloved is work to resolve her anguish about her sister,” Dandelion explained. “Also, I’ve never accompanied you three on a hunt before. How can I represent the events accurately in my songs if I don’t actually witness them first hand?”

“Actually, Geralt has a good point,” Cahir said, sprinkling silver dust on his piece of cloth and shifting it around. “Dandelion doesn’t have any combat training. He could get badly hurt.”

“I’ll keep my distance,” Dandelion assured them. “Besides, you may need someone to run and scream for help if things go badly.”

“I’m coming too,” Eithné declared. “I have my silver collar.”

“No, you’re going to stay home with Aunty Angoulême,” Milva said smoothly. “You don’t want to be walking around in the dark with all these smelly men for hours and hours.”

“Aunty Angoulême?” Eithné repeated, eyes sparkling. “Yes! I can’t wait to show her what I swiped.”

“Swiped?” Cahir asked, looking up from his work.

Eithné grinned and extended the hand that was hidden behind her back. A heavy gold watch encircled with gemstones was draped over her palm.

“What…” Dandelion stared at it in astonishment and then looked down at his own empty wrist. “You little light-fingered rascal! I never even felt you remove it.”

Milva sighed. “I think I need to have a talk with a certain bad-news babysitter.”

After a round of tuna melts and tomato soup, they started cleaning up the mess in the living room. Geralt supervised to make sure that all the loose silver dust was collected and poured back into the jars.

The collars were still drying by the radiator when another knock on the door sounded and Eithné ushered Regis and Angoulême into the house. Angoulême wore a black poncho with strategic holes cut out and stitched over with thread of different colors. Regis was dressed in his typical ensemble of dark trousers and a long-sleeved shirt with an immaculate bronze-colored waistcoat and fitted blazer. He smiled warmly as usual, but there was a tightness around his eyes and a tension in his shoulders.

Eithné was eager to show them both her new light-fingered skills. While everyone watched her stealthily remove Cahir’s wallet from his back pocket, Milva pulled Geralt aside.

“Can I talk to you for a second?” She led him to her bedroom and shut the door.

“What’s this about?” Geralt said, on edge.

“I just want to head off a situation,” Milva said, putting her hands on her hips. “First of all, thanks for being so cool about me and Cahir. I didn’t know if you were going to sulk or throw a fit, so I’m glad to see you acting like an adult.”

“Okay…” Geralt frowned. “Might be more meaningful if you weren’t talking to me like I was your thirteen-year-old son.”

“Gods forbid,” Milva muttered. “Anyway, I just wanted to say, I know Regis is going to ask to go on the hunt with us tonight and I know you’re going to put up a fuss, like you always do. You want to keep everyone safe, and only endanger yourself, I get that. But we want you safe too, and Regis is the guy you want to have around when the pressure is on, right? Plus, you can’t keep pushing him away. He’s totally into you, y’know?

Geralt snorted. “I’m pushing him away? Milva, he turned me down multiple times. Not that it’s any of your business, really.”

Milva’s forehead creased with disbelief. “No way. He looks at you sometimes like he wants to eat you up. You must have said something to turn him off.”

“I have no idea,” Geralt said wearily. “Fine, invite Dandelion and Regis, and Eithné’s entire second grade class to come with us tonight, for all I care. I’m not gonna be responsible for them. Besides, it’ll probably just be a body dumped in the woods, nothing exciting.”

When they got back to the living room, Dandelion was crooning a song while a guitar track played on his phone. Cahir, Eithné, and Regis had all squeezed onto the couch listening while Angouleme sat on the floor, her own phone raised, grinning and recording a video. The song was something about a troubled hero who slew various monsters but could never slay his personal demons. Geralt listened to the tail end of the song with his arms folded across his chest.

The beasts, the ghouls fall to his blade

To fiends and fools, death will be paid

He’ll lift your spell, but he can’t bind

The wraiths that dwell inside his mind

Everyone clapped except for Geralt who was too busy glaring at Dandelion. “Is that supposed to be me?”

“A slightly embellished version of you for the masses,” Dandelion said, giving him a deep bow.

“Sing it again!” Eithné urged.

“No time for that,” Geralt said, loud and firm. “We gotta get going soon. Are your shiny collars done yet?”

Eithné poked at the surface of one. “Yeah, looks dry. Mr. Dandelion can have mine.” She lifted it up and brought it to him. “But we don’t have one for Mr. Regis.”

“That’s not a problem,” Regis assured her. “Don’t worry yourself over me. I have other ways of protecting myself.”

They left the house around eight, a motley band of fools setting out to drive around the streets of Beauclair. Regis showed them the tracker: an old compass, green with tarnish, and glowing slightly. The glass face was missing and the needle had been replaced with a fragment of pointed orichalcum loosely attached to the center. It hummed softly as they drove, gradually shifting positions to point their way.

The five of them squished into Roach, Regis taking the passenger seat in order to navigate for Geralt. Milva, Cahir, and Dandelion crammed into the backseat. All of their gear went into the battered trunk.

The tracker led them from their neighborhood in the working-class southwest side of town with its bars and shops to the arts district, teeming with people visiting shows and galleries; then up to the hills where the buildings thinned out and lush lawns surrounded long driveways for palatial houses.

It was like navigating through a maze, following the tracker by car. They had to stay on the streets and take multiple turns to stay on the tracker’s path. Finally, they came to a fenced estate and circled around its massive exterior, but the tracker continued to point inward. “Must be here,” Geralt grunted, heading for the main gate. A guard at the driveway was checking IDs and ushering drivers through. Laughter and music floated across the neat grounds landscaped with flowering trees. Fairy lights dripped from the branches, casting a rainbow glow.

There were two sleek luxury cars ahead of them, waiting to turn into the estate. Roach looked especially dingy and worn-down idling next to them. Geralt turned around to look at the three in the back seat. “Okay, everybody be cool. We’re just here for the event and we lost our invitations but we totally know what it is…right?”

“It appears to be Lady Orianna’s home,” Regis said. “I’ve been here before. She likes to host parties for up-and-coming artists and invite all the affluent art collectors of this area to view their work. I imagine that is what is currently taking place tonight.”

“Great!” Geralt said, feeling relieved. “So, we’ve got an in, right? The guard will know you?”

Regis looked less than confident. “I don’t usually enter this way… Perhaps if the guard can contact Orianna, she will allow our group in. I’ve known her a long time, but we are not especially close friends.”

“Isn’t she that philanthropist who started the big orphanage?” Cahir asked. “I think I’ve seen her in the newspaper.”

“Yes,” Dandelion said. “And she’s a great patron of the arts. She attended my private show at the mansion and my hiatus party at The Silver.”

As the car ahead of them rolled through the elaborately wrought metal gates, Geralt wondered what sort of image they presented to the guard: a weird white-haired guy with yellow cat eyes, a dapper middle-aged man holding a compass, and a trio of young people all with sparkly collars pinned around their throats.

“Hello!” the cheerful young man at the guard station said. He had red devil horns stuck to his cap and a long crimson cape that would seriously interfere with his mobility in a fight. Geralt disapproved.

“Good evening,” Regis said from the passenger side. “We’re here for the art soiree. I’ve heard that Lady Orianna has selected a number of fine creators and performers for the evening.”

“Oh, definitely,” the guard said, beaming. The musicians have already performed, but there will be a play later and plenty of performance art exhibits to check out. I recommend the Great Gilberto. He dresses like a clown and juggles objects wrapped in pages of the Peace of Cintra Treaty. It’s a deeply moving commentary on international politics and the dangers of imperialism.”

“Sounds like a hoot,” Geralt said. “Well, we’ll just be on our way.”

“Okay,” the guard chirped, settling back into his chair. “Have a great night, guys.”

Geralt put Roach in drive and cruised into the vast grounds of the estate. The driveway curved up and through a grove of massive locust trees. The moon flooded the grassy expanses with a milky radiance and under the colored fairy lights, a handful of people were twirling and dancing, clothes and faces shining with neon paint.

“We gonna find a dead body here?” Milva drawled, watching a topless woman in a tutu spin a glow-in-the-dark hula hoop.

“Rich people have the most secrets,” Geralt said. “This place is so big, you could bury a small village of corpses here, if you wanted to.”

“Let’s hope that’s not the case,” Cahir said dryly. Dandelion shuddered.

Geralt parked Roach in the crowded lot, backing her into a spot that would be easy to leave in a hurry. They piled out of the car and strapped on their weapons. Geralt drank a quick shot of Black Blood. Then they followed the magic compass across the wide, sloping lawn toward the looming shadow of the enormous house.

Chapter Text

As they approached, they saw the residence was more of a complex of buildings rising around a wide central space. Following the stream of costumed guests through the wide doors, they entered a rectangular courtyard with a towering fountain at the center of a shallow pool. The fountain was sculpted to look like a flock of herons were flying out of it, pursuing a trio of large fish, perpetually frozen in mid-leap in the streams of falling water. The pool glittered with coins and false gem stones. At least, Geralt hoped they were false.

On the spacious leveled terraces, guests dressed in a variety of brightly-colored costumes moved between displays of paintings and sculptures to performers: dancers, jugglers, contortionists, and others whose acts Geralt couldn’t identify. One woman’s entire show seemed to consist of her shifting positions while pretending to sleep in a huge cocktail glass. It made Geralt want a drink.

There were plenty of tables spread with appetizers: candied fruits, olives, nuts, pink strips of salmon on crackers with capers, shot glasses of caviar, diced melons alternated with smoked meat on thin sticks, tiny scones stamped with golden seals, miniature pickled vegetables in an array of colors… At smaller tables, servers with fairy wings strapped to their backs offered glasses of wine or pale green absinthe. Geralt resisted the temptation to take one.

They wandered through a swirling crowd of princesses, demons, flappers, video game characters, meme jokes, caped heroes, dinosaurs, sexy cats, condiments, and people wearing only strategic body paint and glitter. Dandelion looked right at home, while Cahir and Milva stared unabashedly. Regis led them to the south end of the courtyard where a small mob had gathered to dance to the beats of a DJ dressed in a skintight skeleton bodysuit. The compass needle began to spin in slow circles and Regis sighed. “She’s somewhere in this area. I’m afraid the tracker is not particularly precise.”

“What should we look for?” Milva asked. “Somebody with fang marks on their neck?”

“Maybe,” Geralt said. “Check for scars. Any women who look overly pale and weak like they’re anemic.”

“There are a lot of people here,” Cahir said dubiously.

“Well, then it’s a good thing there are a lot of us to look,” Geralt said.

Cahir and Milva immediately went to patrol the edges of the crowd like a pair of drug-sniffing dogs. Geralt wished he had told them to be less obvious.

He caught Dandelion nodding his head to the rhythm of the music and tapping his feet. “We’re not here to party, buddy.”

“We ought to attempt to blend in, yes?” Dandelion said, swaying his hips and busting out a dance move that made Geralt wince. Dandelion didn’t seem to notice. He waded into the bouncing pack of dancers and disappeared.

When Geralt glanced over at Regis, he saw a woman approaching, coming down the steps with clear intent. She looked to be in her early thirties with auburn hair swept up into a smooth coif. Her sheer-sleeved black lace dress projected wealth and sophistication. “Emiel,” she said, coming to greet him. “I wasn’t expecting you tonight.”

“Yes, Lady Orianna, I’m sorry to make a sudden appearance,” Regis said brightly. “I just happened to be in the area with a group of friends and we stumbled upon your party. I’m afraid we invited ourselves in.”

“No trouble at all,” she said graciously. “It’s always good to see your face.” She glanced sideways at Geralt. “I see you brought a…warrior of sorts.”

Geralt introduced himself awkwardly and shook her delicate hand. She had clear, genial features and a glow of youth that, compared with the depth of experience in her eyes, made him think sorceress, but the impression was off and somehow wrong. Even as she smiled, lips curving into a bow, he felt an uncomfortable pressure in the back of his consciousness, like the weight of hands pushing his shoulders down.

“Your swords are lovely,” she said in smooth voice. “I hope you have no need to use them tonight.”

“Likewise,” Geralt said shortly.

As he watched her turn back and continue making small talk with Regis, a glimmer of recognition lit up his memory. It was so similar: loud electronic music, dancers twisting around him, and a statuesque, elegant woman standing listening to Cirilla’s frantic plea, “I just need—"

It was the woman from The Silver he’d seen just before the girl fled. Just before the alps attacked. Stay away, his brain said. Do not get wrapped up in this again. But the urge to know was pulling at him like an anchor sinking to the ocean floor.

“Excuse me,” he said, drawing her attention again. “Maybe I’ve seen you before, about three weeks ago, at Dandelion’s party at The Silver. You were speaking to a young woman with white-blond hair.”

Orianna gave him a pleasant, careful assessment. Regis stiffened ever so slightly, his eyes shooting a warning at Geralt.

“Yes, I was there,” Orianna said. “I’m afraid I can’t say much about my interaction with the young lady in question. She was asking for something I had no power to grant. We spoke briefly before you arrived and she took flight. That’s all.”

“And you don’t know anything about the alps that attacked us in the alley?” Geralt said in a low voice.

Orianna tipped her head to the side, looking amused. “Throwing all your cards on the table already?”

“Geralt,” Regis said. “This is not the trouble you’re looking for.”

Geralt locked eyes with Orianna. “I’m looking for a vampire that can move through walls and write threatening messages in blood. I’m also looking for any vampires that are after Cirilla of Nilfgaard.”

“Then you’re looking in the wrong place,” Orianna said, cool as steel in winter. “I keep to myself. I stay out of the affairs of the world. The machinations of others are none of my concern.”

“I used to say that too,” Geralt admitted with a twisted smile. “We’ll see how long you can hold onto your neutrality before someone comes gunning for you.”

Regis put a hand on his arm. “Thank you for your time, Lady Orianna. I hope the rest of your evening is pleasant.”

“Thank you, Emiel. I wish you the same.” She gave a small, light nod to Geralt as she turned and glided away.

“There’s something weird about her,” Geralt said. “I got a bad feeling and I needed to figure out why. I’m sorry if I messed up things between you two.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Regis said, still squeezing Geralt’s arm with his hand. “It’s simply…”

The music ended and the cacophony of cheers drowned out his voice. Geralt looked up to the little stage where the skeleton DJ had perched with a soundboard. The DJ removed her skull mask and threw it into the crowd. She had purple hair tied back in a short ponytail, piercing blue eyes, and a sardonic mouth. Her eyes fell on Geralt and Regis and she laughed. People were trying to talk to her, pulling at her attention, but she stared straight at the two of them.

Geralt was trying to figure out if she was another casualty of his lost memories. There was something familiar about those slanting brows and that pert, cruel mouth.

“Rhena,” Regis said softly. “I wonder if Dettlaff is nearby.”

“I thought he went to Nazair,” Geralt said, bringing it up at last.

“No, Rhena refused to go, and I abandoned my plans with him as well, so he didn’t leave. I’m afraid we didn’t part on good terms. He may still be angry with me.”

“Because of me?” Geralt asked. “Is he mad that you stayed to take care of me?”

“Yes,” Regis admitted grudgingly. “But it’s no fault of yours. It was my choice to stay, even after you regained your health. I see now that nothing I do will prevent the inevitable.”

“Well, the apocalypse will get to Nazair eventually,” Geralt surmised. “Might as well be here for front row seats.”

Milva and Cahir returned to Geralt looking excited. Dandelion trailed behind them, sipping from a wine glass.

“Did you see the DJ?” Milva asked Geralt.

“Yeah, it’s Dettlaff’s girlfriend,” Geralt said. “I don’t think we’ve met her yet.”

Milva frowned. “I could have sworn she was the girl in the family portrait. Dandelion thinks so too. Her hair isn’t black, but she’s the spitting image of Syanna, don’t you think?”

Geralt groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. Of course. Why hadn’t he seen it? “Yes,” he murmured. “It’s gotta be Syanna. She used her own blood for the messages.”

“The governor’s sister?” Regis said, brows raised. “That is an…unexpected turn of events. However, I caution you to approach her carefully. Dettlaff can be overly protective and sensitive to any inkling of a threat.”

“We’ll just ask a few questions,” Cahir said confidently. “I’ll show my badge if she gets squirrelly.”

“Maybe take off that glitter collar first,” Geralt said. “That go-go boy look might send the wrong impression.” While they were talking, Syanna had retreated up the stairs to the upper level. Geralt itched to follow her, but warning bells started clanging in his head. “On second thought, keep that collar on. Won’t help you if a vamp decides to rip your arm off, but at least it will cover your carotid artery.”

“I will remain here,” Regis said. “Rhena may react badly if I am part of the confrontation, and I will be little use to you in a fight.”

“All right,” Geralt said. “Better have Dandelion stay with you too.”

“Not a chance!” Dandelion protested. “Syanna is clearly in league with vampiric forces and lent them her blood to do her bidding. I will not be denied the moment when she is forced to reveal the truth.”

“Then stay behind us,” Milva said, touching her hip reflexively. Her jacket covered the gun at her waist. Cahir similarly wore his under a loose shirt. Geralt’s swords were out in the open for everyone to see, but since this was a costume party, few took notice. They would just assume the trio dressed in kevlar body armor were characters from an action movie or something.

The four of them took the steps up the landing and turned left as Syanna had. Covered alcoves lined the walkway, adorned with couches covered in pillows and low tables. Many guests had taken advantage of the semi-private areas to have quieter conversations or engage in various stages of intimacy. In one, a loud group was clustered around a small mountain of white powder. Syanna did not appear to be present in any of them, so they continued on to the door at the far end.

Inside the building, a staircase stretched between the first and third levels. Geralt guessed that Syanna had continued her ascent and he climbed the steps with the others close behind. The wolf medallion on his chest began to shiver and shake.

At the top, a single black door opened into a spacious living area. Soft music played from the bluetooth speaker on the shelf. Tapestries of landscapes in muted colors covered the walls. Syanna sat on the floor of the main room on a dark blue rug spangled like the night sky. One leg was curled under her and the other stretched out, long heel of her black boot pointed directly at the door. She still wore her skeleton bodysuit. Next to her, a thin brunette woman sat, spreading out a line of playing cards. Behind Syanna, a blonde with green streaks in her long hair played with Syanna’s shorter purple tresses.

Syanna laughed softly when Geralt and the others entered the room. She tipped her head back to look up at Geralt with amused derision. “Lost your way, monster slayer? No baddies in here.” The other two women giggled and the high-pitched tone of their voices set Geralt on edge.

“You tell me,” Geralt said. “We’re looking for the missing sister of Anna Henrietta and the vampires who helped her leave threatening messages and possibly commit murder. Sound like anyone you know?”

“I think you came to the wrong place,” Syanna drawled. “My name is Rhena. I just spin mixes. And I wouldn’t know a vampire if it bit me in the ass.”

This sent her companions into another gale of laughter.

“Syanna,” Dandelion tried, “Anrietta has been mourning you for years. Nothing would make her happier than to be reunited in familial bliss once again. All will be forgiven, I promise you.”

“Her forgive me?” Syanna looked suddenly furious. “Say I actually did come back into the fold, the prodigal sister returning to the family that kicked her out. What could that spider possibly say or do to make up for the fucked up shit she put me through?”

“She desires reconciliation…” Dandelion said. “She deeply regrets causing you trouble and pain.”

“Reconciliation can wait,” Cahir said. “First I need to ask you about five separate murders connected to the facility you were staying at.”

Syanna exchanged a look with the woman next to her. “I wouldn’t know anything about that, but if I did, I’d say they probably got exactly what they deserved. Haven’t you read the news stories? Those people were monsters.” She gave Geralt a nod. “You should have been hunting them.”

“I’d like you to come in for an interview,” Cahir said firmly. “You can tell us everything you know.”

“An interview?” She dropped her head back onto the shoulder of the woman behind her. “You wanna hire me, officer? Short staffed down at the precinct?”

The blond woman stroked down the curve of Syanna’s neck fingers outlining the silvery scar tissue there. She grinned at Geralt, taunting him with a pair of long fangs.

“I need your address and contact information,” Cahir said, pulling out a notepad, like the cop he was.

“This has been fun,” Syanna said tightly. “But we were just starting a game and I really wanna get back to it. If you dumbasses can’t take a hint and get out of here now, my girls are going to get feisty. They don’t like trespassers.”

The brunette stood up slowly. The fingernails of both her hands lengthened and grew, extending to curved claws. Geralt unsheathed his sword as her skin darkened to gray and her face melted into a snarling mask of sharp teeth.

“Stay back against the wall,” Geralt said to the others. “Dandelion, run now.”

“Bad choice,” Syanna drawled, rising to her feet. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Dandelion backed into the door but couldn’t seem to figure out how to open it, his shaking hands scrambling behind him. Geralt cursed and cast Quen.

The transformed bruxa arched her back, filling her lungs with air. On his peripheral, he saw the blonde stand and vanish, but he had to keep his focus on the one gearing up for a sound wave attack.

“Hold!” Milva shouted. She and Cahir fired multiple rounds into the visible bruxa, sending her stumbling and reeling with the impact of silver bullets. As soon as the shots stopped, Geralt charged in, hitting as hard as he could. She caught two long cuts to her torso before she disappeared.

Then the blond bruxa appeared, crashed into Geralt’s Quen shield, shattering it and throwing them both back in opposite directions. Gunshots rattled Geralt’s eardrums. Cahir shot the bruxa several times and quickly reloaded while Milva continued a steady barrage of gunfire.

As Geralt rolled to his feet and heard the click of Cahir’s clip slide into his gun, the first bruxa reappeared beside Cahir, claws raking at his chest and face. She backed him into the wall and tried to bite at his neck, then his shoulder, but his body armor stopped her teeth. When Geralt sank his sword into her back and she slumped to the ground. The bruxa Milva had been shooting at was dragging her body across the floor toward them, snarling and riddled with bloody holes. Geralt spun toward her and brought his blade down in two quick strikes to hack off her head.

Now that the smoke was clearing, he saw that Syanna had disappeared in the confusion. Dandelion unfolded from his defensive position, face flushed with the excitement.

“Where’s Syanna?” Geralt demanded.

“She went into the back room!” Dandelion shouted, leading the way. “Don’t let her get away.”

Geralt was right behind him. The blast of a gunshot startled him and, for a split second, he thought it was Milva making sure the stabbed bruxa was down for good. But then Dandelion fell backward, blood running from the exit wound on the back of his shoulder.

“Damn it!” Geralt caught him and pulled him out of the doorway to the cover of the wall.

“Stay the fuck away from me!” Syanna shouted.

Cahir and Milva crouched down. Cahir signaled that he would approach from the right. Blood ran down his face from the bruxa’s claws, but he seemed uninjured otherwise. Milva nodded and took the left side of the room. They slid along, keeping their backs to the wall. When they got to opposite sides of the doorway, Milva fired blindly up into the ceiling of the next room to provide a distraction while Cahir crouched under her arms and aimed carefully.

“Drop your weapon!” he shouted.

Milva lowered her aim, also training her gun on Syanna, or so Geralt assumed. He was still sitting with Dandelion turned on his side, applying pressure to the wound on his back.

Cahir and Milva both darted into the next room, guns extended. After a few minutes they dragged Syanna back into the main room, handcuffed. Her purple hair fell in disarray over her face, and her cheek was red with carpet burn, presumably from when she’d been forced to the ground. But she was still sneering, sharp eyes bright with fury.

“At least I got the lap dog,” she said in an uneven voice, looking down at Dandelion. “You should all be grateful I didn’t shoot him in the head, like I wanted.”

“I’ll get Regis,” Milva said, going for the door.

“Call for an ambulance too,” Cahir told her.

Dandelion groaned and clenched his teeth. “Tell my beloved that my last thoughts were of her delicate alabaster beauty.”

“Relax, hero,” Geralt said. “You can tell her yourself. The bullet went right through your shoulder. Classic flesh wound like in a movie. You lost some blood, but you’ll live to see another day.”

“You’re under arrest for attempted murder,” Cahir told Syanna. “And don’t think you’re going to squirm out of those killings from before either.”

“What about you all?” she said vehemently. “You and your gang just barged in her, threatened me, and shot two of my closest friends. That’ll have consequences.”

“I don’t think judges and juries typically have a lot of sympathy for murderous vampires,” Geralt said. “You might not have done the killings yourself, but you can still do time for shooting my friend.”

“You fucking idiot,” Syanna said, laughing roughly. “No jail cell is gonna keep me.”

Regis entered the room with Milva and immediately went to Dandelion, kneeling at his side. “Emergency medical technicians are all the way, as well as a police escort.” He didn’t look at Syanna. “Don’t worry yourself, Dandelion. It’s not a bad wound by any stretch of the imagination.”

“Regis,” Syanna hissed. “You brought these assholes here. They killed my friends.”

“I’m sorry,” Regis said steadily, still taping a bandage to Dandelion. “But your friends tried to kill mine.”

“Come on,” Cahir said to Syanna. “Your ride is here.” He guided her to the door by her handcuffed wrists.

“Wait,” Geralt said suddenly. He studied her face, arranged into a careful mask of disdain. “Were you planning to kill your sister too?”

Syanna looked back over her shoulder at him. “I hadn’t decided yet,” she said with a bitter smile. “I guess we’ll never know.” She squared her shoulders and walked out the door with Cahir. “Enjoy your last hours of life, assholes.”

The EMTs brought in a stretcher to carry Dandelion out. Milva smoothed the hair back from his forehead and kissed him there. Geralt gave his hand one last squeeze. “This is gonna be an awesome song, right?”

Dandelion beamed at them through the sweat and pain. “The very best.”

When the cops came in and starting examining the mangled bodies in the room, Geralt and Regis and Milva stepped out to the walkway on the ledge. Milva went down to join Cahir and check the cuts on his face. Regis and Geralt stood alone looking down on the scene below. The party guests had thinned out when the fuzz arrived, but there were still plenty of revelers twirling in the courtyard and swaying across the lawn. Regis stood rigid and silent beside him.

“We’re gonna have to answer some awkward questions from the cops,” Geralt said. “Sorry we dragged you into this.”

Regis shook his head woodenly. “I insisted on coming. I’m glad I could give some aid to Dandelion at least.”

“How pissed off is Dettlaff going to be?” Geralt asked. “I know he’s already pretty mad at us both.”

“I’ll speak with him as soon as I can,” Regis said in a low monotone. “I’m not sure how much he really knew about Rhena and what she was capable of. Perhaps I can convince him to be reasonable.”

Geralt sighed. “I’m just fucking up all your friendships, aren’t I?”

“No,” Regis said, taking his hand. The calluses on his fingers rasped against Geralt’s. His touch was cool and firm. “I’m glad to have made such remarkable friends as we share in our little circle.” He continued to stare out into the courtyard. “You took out those bruxae handily between the three of you.” Lowering his head slowly, he said, “There may be repercussions. You should take precautions.”

Geralt frowned. “Syanna did seem awfully cocky for someone who was just arrested. I bet she has more vampire pals. Strange. I’ve never heard of humans and vampires getting along.”

“It’s rare,” Regis said quietly.

Along the horizon, colored orbs shot high into the air and exploded in sparkling flowers. They rained fiery glitter from the sky. Streaks and halos and effervescent blooms all blazed and died. Sounds of appreciation rose from the courtyard below as the guests clapped and cooed at the show.

Regis remained silent, fireworks reflecting in the dark pools of his eyes.

“Hey,” Geralt said, squeezing his hand. “Are you all right? It was a pretty grisly scene in there. Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” Regis breathed, fingers tightening around Geralt’s. “I just want to stay here for a little longer.”

Cahir had to remain at the scene, but Milva, Geralt, and Regis were released after questioning. By the time they got home, it was the early hours of the morning. Eithne was tucked into her bed. Angoulême had curled up on the couch. She looked especially young when sleeping.

Regis said, “Let her stay here. I’ll come get her when she wakes.” He picked up the blanket that had fallen on the floor and draped it over her.

“You can stay too,” Geralt said as Milva yawned loudly and made a strategic getaway to her bedroom. “I promise not to make a move. We can just snuggle, if you want.”

Regis chuckled softly. “As much as I would like to, it would be a foolish choice on my part.”

“Can’t you just be foolish this once?” Geralt wheedled.

“Oh Geralt,” Regis said with a wistful look. “You have no idea how foolish I already am.” He pulled his bag close on his shoulder, sighed, looked at Angoulême, and went to the door.

Chapter Text

She’s burning magic like a bonfire, setting the trail through the empty shopping mall. Fear and anticipation stretch her mind tight. Her chest aches with the blood pumping from her heart. Darkened storefronts fronts fly by. Dust rises from her feet. Finally, she slows seeing her target ahead—the cement basin of the drained fountain. She’s almost there when a face reflected on the pane of glass covering a storefront makes her freeze and reach for her sword. Her head jerks around, but there’s no one to cast the reflection.

“Ciri,” the person in the glass says, distorted but familiar.

She peers into the shadowy surface, still braced to fight or flee. Gradually, the darkened features make sense—a beloved face, an illusion?

“Ciri, don’t leave,” the woman says. “There are men coming to your location. They’re Nilfgaardian agents coming to protect you. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Please trust me. We can help you. You don’t have to keep running.”

Hot tears well in her eyes. “Call them back, Yen,” she says. “I didn’t mean for you to find me. I laid the trail for someone else. It’s a trap. You have to tell everyone to stay away.”

The woman in the glass says her name again, frantic and pleading, but it’s too late. Already thrumming with emotional energy, she screams into the glass and it shatters before her. Jagged pieces crash and tinkle to the grimy floor. Lungs heaving, she wipes the tears, sucks in a breath, and continues to her target.

After waking from another bizarre dream, Geralt decided to call Yen. She didn’t pick up, and he struggled to think of anything to say to her voicemail. He’d already told her he couldn’t help find Ciri, a decision that was weighing heavier on him with each dream/vision that he had of her. Obviously, there was still a powerful connection between them that his selective amnesia hadn’t erased. He made a mental note to ask Regis again about what it would take to restore his memories.

 Another day passed. A fire broke out in a church of the Eternal Fire so hot that it melted the silver candelabras. A horde of drowners attacked a pair of fishing boats on the lake. A leshen ripped up the new picnic shelter and restrooms at the woodland park. A juvenile basilisk had nested on a dumpster behind the discount movie theater. Geralt couldn’t keep track of the reports pouring from Cahir, from his website, and from the governor’s office.

After wearing himself tracking and wiping out the drowners and a battling with the leshen, Geralt agreed to let Milva shoot the basilisk in the head several times from a distance with her high-powered rifle. Sometimes her sniper skills scared him a little.

Between all the monster wrangling, they didn’t have time to visit Dandelion in the hospital, but by the end of the day, Dandelion had been released and was recovering at Anna Henrietta’s mansion.

They showered, had dinner with Eithne, and departed for the mansion with her in tow. Milva drove this time. Geralt was still hurting from a deep bruise on his side and back where the leshen had thrown him into a tree. At least the cuts on his face where the leshen’s crows had pecked him were healing quickly. Eithne and Milva were in good spirits. Eithne had created one of her get-well-soon cards with a picture of Dandelion in oversized sparkly sunglasses and a rainbow striped jumpsuit. It was not unimaginable, Geralt thought.

He checked his phone again and scowled.

“What?” Milva said glancing over at him. “Another attack?”

“No,” Geralt said. “Regis hasn’t replied to my texts today. He’s usually so responsive.”

Milva looked quickly back to where Eithne was sitting, headphones on, watching a video on her phone. “Seemed like you two were getting kind of cozy last night. I think I saw you holding hands like the cutest couple at the middle school. Is he warming up to you?”

Geralt sighed. “It’s complicated, but maybe things are going better? I’m working on him.”

Milva shook her head, eyes on the road. “Working on him? That sounds a little creepy. Haven’t you heard of enthusiastic consent?”

“Yes,” Geralt said uncertainly. “I’m just getting a lot of mixed signals. One minute he’s clinging to me and the next he’s pulling away.”

“Well, maybe he has mixed feelings,” Milva said tartly. “He might not be ready to commit to you and all of your many, many issues. Can’t blame him.”

“Hey,” Geralt protested. But they were already pulling up to the first guardhouse. Milva rolled down her window and talked to the guard. It took a call to the mansion before they were allowed through the gate.

Geralt found himself evaluating the security system along the way: cameras, gates patrolling guards, attack dogs on leashes, and Anna Henrietta’s personal bodyguards. Not too shabby, but none of them would withstand an attack from a higher vampire. He hoped that Syanna had gotten her kicks already, terrorizing her sister, and wouldn’t go any further.

In the mansion, they found Dandelion stretched out on a reclining chair surrounded by an entire greenhouse’s supply of floral arrangements and bouquets. He smiled slowly, seeing them. “What have I done to deserve a visit from the illustrious Geralt and two such exquisite ladies?”

“You got shot charging in, after I told you multiple times to stay back,” Geralt grumbled.

Eithne rushed to his side to display the card to him and show her hard work. Dandelion looked at it with dreamy eyes, showering her with compliments. Geralt wondered how high his painkiller dosage was.

“I’ve started writing a song,” Dandelion told them. “I shall call it ‘Night of the Fanged Fatales.’ Vivienne has been dictating it for me.”

“Sounds perfect,” Milva said, reaching out to squeeze his hand. “Thanks for being so brave in there.”

“What happened?” Eithne asked, looking confused.

“I rushed into a situation that I was ill-prepared for,” Dandelion said. “Let it be a lesson to you, young one, that despite your best intentions, it is always better to follow the advice of those more experienced than you.”

Eithne thought about this for a second. “But what happened?” she whined. “How did you get hurt?”

“A very angry person shot me with a gun,” Dandelion said carefully, looking at Milva. “That’s why you should stay away from guns.”

“Yes,” Milva said. “At least until you’re a lot older.”

Eithne looked like she had a lot more questions, but Dandelion distracted her by telling her to take a pink teddy bear that had accompanied a get-well bouquet.

Anna Henrietta strolled in soon after to check on Dandelion. She nodded to Geralt and he followed her out into the hall. She smoothed her hands down the line of her simple gray dress. He could see the shadows under her eyes even under the layer of makeup.

“My sister is being held at the county jail,” she said quietly. “She refuses to talk to me. I’m horrified that I’ve given her yet another reason to hate me.”

“She’s the one who issued the threats,” Geralt said. “She’s the one who pulled the trigger on Dandelion. She can’t blame you for the consequences.”

“Why does everything have to be so wretched?” Anna Henrietta said, curling her fingers into her palms. “She was my closest friend. Can we never return to that place?”

“You can’t make someone love you,” Geralt said. “Believe me, I’ve tried.” He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “At this point, you have a sister who hangs out with vampires and may have orchestrated five murders. Is that really a person you want to be close to?”

“Yes,” Anna Henrietta said firmly. “She’s not an evil person. She was hurt and abused and she lashed out. I would have done the same. If she can forgive me for what I did, I can forgive her misdeeds as well.”

 “I doubt that’s going to happen,” Geralt said quietly. He reached into his pocket. “I wanted to ask you about this key that we found with the map of your house. Do you recognize it?”

She plucked the key from his palm, held it between two fingers and studied it for a long time. Then she closed her hand around it and clenched until the muscles in her arm stood out.

When she finally spoke, her voice was hoarse with emotion. “I had an antique music box with a spinning ballerina. Very cliché, I know, but it was quite valuable. It closed up and locked so that it couldn’t be easily damaged. I wore the key on a pink ribbon around my neck, like a girl from a storybook. I told Syanna she could only use the music box if she had perfect behavior that day. I thought I was helping her be a good little girl. It infuriated her. Needless to say, the key disappeared and she pretended ignorance, even after our parents spanked and threatened her. I thought she’d tossed it down a sewer grate or something of the sort. Why would she bring it back to me after all this time?”

Geralt’s mouth twisted. “Unless she finally decides to open up to you, I don’t expect we’ll ever know.”

That night, in the dark, narrow space of the attic, Geralt woke. Rain beat a hollow percussion on the roof above his head. It echoed in his head, but it wasn’t what had woken him. He stretched out his senses, cat eyes picking out a humanoid outline crouched near the ladder, faintly lit by the glow from the hall below. He smelled green mistletoe, peppery balisse, citrus-sharp berbercane.

“Regis?” he said, confused.

A slow, cautious breath exhaled from the crouched figure. “Yes,” Regis said. “It’s me.” Still he didn’t move any closer.

Geralt crawled to him under the low ceiling. Now he could smell wet clothes and hair. He reached out and touched Regis’ damp shoulder. “Have you been standing out in the rain?”

“Yes,” Regis said. “I stood outside for some time. Milva let me in.”

“What are you doing here?” Geralt asked. “Is this about Syanna and Dettlaff?”

“No,” Regis said in a hushed voice. “I’m here because I’m weak.”

“You’re going to be weak with a fever, if you don’t get out of those soaking clothes,” Geralt said, feeling for the hem of his soggy sweater and pulling it up to his armpits. “Don’t you know it’s winter? Here, take these off and wrap up in my blankets.”

Regis didn’t protest. He was already shivering as he helped Geralt slide the sweater over his head. When Geralt touched the bare skin of his shoulder, cool and damp, Regis curled into the touch, dropping his head to hold Geralt’s hand there. The rain increased to a heavy clatter on the roof. Geralt stroked his other hand up Regis’ side, touching the dip of each rib.

“Pants off too?” he asked.

Regis exhaled and reached down to remove his shoes. Then he unfastened the buttons on his trousers and tried to squirm out of them.

“Lie down,” Geralt said.

Regis obeyed him, stretching out on top of one of Geralt’s discarded coats. Geralt eased his pants off him, pulling from the ankles and sliding them down slowly. He tossed them to the side and leaned over Regis. It was too dark to make out his features.

“My blankets are over here,” Geralt said, tamping down on his hunger. “Come on. Get down on the mattress and I’ll wrap you up.”

Regis reached up and tugged at the hem of Geralt’s t-shirt, urging him closer. His hands slipped up under the shirt, sliding over the skin beneath. “Warm me,” he whispered. “Burn me up.” He tugged Geralt’s shirt up his back until it caught under his armpits.

“Really?” Geralt gasped, temperature rising, “You mean—”

“Yes,” Regis hissed. He reached down and pulled Geralt’s shorts over his hips. “Yes, I want you. Just once. It will be enough.”

“Once?” Geralt repeated. He sat up and lifted his shirt over his head. “You think one and done?” He kicked off his shorts. “Let’s see.”

Regis removed his own undershorts, then scrambled onto his knees. He surged into Geralt, threw both arms around him and gripped him tightly, like a wrestler. The sides of their faces pressed together. Regis’ cool skin stuck to Geralt’s with the moisture of the rain. Naked, he straddled Geralt’s lap, and Geralt felt everything. He couldn’t stop the choked moan that escaped him. Regis breathed long and slow, fastened to him. His wet hair dripped on Geralt’s shoulder. His fingers caressed the hard line of Geralt’s spine. Every touch chimed a clear, startling note of Yes through Geralt’s head.

Geralt turn his head, dragging his mouth over Regi’s ear and cheek, trying to catch Regis’ lips.

But Regis jerked his head away. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Anything but that.”

Geralt brushed aside his disappointment. “Anything?” he asked with a teasing note.

Regis rocked his hips into Geralt, sending waves of pleasure through him. “Anything,” he promised.

Geralt grabbed him under the armpits and pulled him to the mattress, laid him there, spread out his slender body, stroked down from his calves to his ankles. The weight of Regis’ heels filled his hands. “Are you sure you really want this?” he said longing, but twisted with sudden uncertainty. It all felt like an incredible dream. He tried to move closer to see Regis’ face, but it was impossible in the pitch-black space. “Why now?”

Regis shifted on the mattress. He breathed out slowly. “I’ve attempted to deny myself for a long time. But I can no longer suppress this. It torments me ceaselessly.”

“Me too,” Geralt whispered. “Fuck, Regis. I thought you’d never…”

Regis’ fingers brushed his jaw. His thumb dragged over Geralt’s lips. Geralt caught his hand and sucked the tips of his fingers, one by one, drawing sharp sounds out of Regis.

Only a vague impression of Regis showed in the thick darkness. Geralt navigated him solely by touch and the noise of the sheets rustling, sighs escaping Regis’ throat. He leaned down and sucked at Regis’ neck, then mouthed his way down to a tight nub of a nipple, cold as a coin, puckered and soft under his tongue. Regis arched into him, pushed both hands into Geralt’s tangled hair, breathed in a stuttering inhalation. His skin tasted of rain and salt.

There was a curly patch of hair on his chest that Geralt wanted to play with, but he focused for now on the journey downward to Regis’ stomach. The soft skin and muscles fluttered and contracted against the touch of his lips. Geralt licked a circle around his navel, then nosed down to nuzzle below, down and down, to the hardness there.

One of Regis’ hands had left Geralt’s head, and, from the muffled sounds coming from above, he deduced that Regis had used them to cover his mouth. Well, it wouldn’t do to wake the roommates. Geralt bent to his task, tracing and circling with his tongue. Regis’ thighs flexed and tightened under Geralt’s hands. Geralt wrapped his mouth around him, massaging with his tongue. Regis gave out a long, stifled moan. Geralt moaned with him. Sucking dick wasn’t usually his favorite activity, but Regis’ reactions were getting him seriously worked up. His own erection was rubbing against the sheets, aching with anticipation.

He lowered his head, taking Regis all the way to his throat, wrapped a hand around the base, and sucked in earnest, drawing out the taste and feel of him. Regis groaned some words through the hand covering his mouth. He thrust shallowly into Geralt’s mouth, clearly struggling to control his speed and force.

“Wait,” Regis gasped. “Not yet.”

Geralt eased off him, releasing his grip. “What do you want?” He couldn’t see Regis’ face and could only judge his reactions by his voice.

Regis’s hands pulled him up so that Geralt was stretched over him again. Then he wrapped both legs around Geralt and rolled them both over. Regis pushed himself up to hands and knees, now hovering over Geralt who lay flat on his back.

Regis’ breath was on his face, features still hidden in the darkness. “I prepared myself. I want to feel you inside me, filling me.”

Geralt lost the ability to speak. He reached up and ran a hand over the lovely curve of Regis’ back down to his smooth buttocks and in between. His heart was thundering with the frantic beat of the rain. He wanted to sink his body into Regis’, melt like snow, absorb into his skin and bones.

Regis sat back on his thighs, straddling Geralt. He reached back and felt for Geralt. The brush of his fingers set Geralt’s blood on fire. Slowly, Regis eased back, guiding Geralt inside him. Although it was clear he had slicked and stretched himself, Geralt still felt the deliriously sweet scrape of friction as Regis sank down on him.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” he tried to say, but it came out slurred and garbled, as his brain was blanking out. Regis was tight and warm around him, pulling him deeper like a forcefield. Above him, Regis made a sound, gasping and choking a moan. He slowly worked his way down to sit on Geralt’s hips, shaking slightly.

“Okay?” Geralt asked through the haze of blind pleasure.

“Yes,” Regis hissed. “It’s…Is it always so intense?”

Geralt tried to form a reply but Regis was squeezing experimentally and all coherent language fled Geralt’s mind. He groaned low and deep. Regis laughed breathlessly. The points of his nails ran over Geralt’s chest, scraping his nipples and tracing hot trails to his belly. Geralt twisted in helpless delight beneath him.

Deliberately, Regis raised himself up a little before lowering again. “Oh,” he said in that soft, surprised voice. He did it again, sliding down hard on Geralt. It rolled hot joy through Geralt’s body. His hands went to Regis’ hips, steadying him, guiding his movement. In time, they found a rhythm rocking into each other that burned away everything else.

Locked in darkness, Geralt felt blindfolded. He could only touch and feel this body rising over his—slim and strong. He could only listen to moans and pants and the slick sounds of their joining. He could only smell sweat and rain and spices. It was better not to see; he was already overwhelmed.

Under Geralt’s hands, Regis’ hips snapped faster and his rhythm faltered as he tried to drive himself harder onto Geralt. Geralt could sense his frustration, trying to get that angle, that perfect pressure and friction to fly over the edge. He closed a loose fist around Regis. The position wasn’t ideal, but it didn’t seem to matter to Regis, who thrust into Geralt’s hand frantically as Geralt continued driving up into him.

Regis gave a short, stifled cry, shuddered, and spilled over Geralt’s belly and chest. His body swayed above Geralt and Geralt carefully eased him off, turned him to lie onto the other side of the mattress. Panting and trembling, Regis was still reaching for him, trying to pull him close again. So Geralt turned his body to cover Regis again, lying between his legs. He lifted Regis’ hips with both hands and slid inside him again. He didn’t need to go slow. Regis was slick and ready for him. His arms wrapped around Geralt, urging him closer. His heels rested on Geralt’s lower back. He was hot inside but his skin still had the feel of the winter rain.

Geralt buried himself deep and just rested there for a moment, surrounded by Regis in the perfect blindness of the night. Then he moved—shallow thrusts at first, then longer, deeper rolls of his hips and ass, feeling the primal hunger taking over his body. Light built behind his eyes, breaking over him in a storm. He could feel himself breaking, but in Regis’ arms, it didn’t matter. He could lose himself. He could break.

The force of his release took him out of his head. A gale of bright sparks burst behind his eyes. The rush of ecstasy bordered on hurt. He cried out into Regis’ shoulder where his face was pressed tightly. Slowly, he came down, felt the heaviness of his body sinking into Regis. He tried to roll away but Regis’ arms locked tight around him.

“Stay,” Regis whispered. “Just a moment.”

Geralt felt Regis’ breath on his ear. Regis’ fingers combed through Geralt’s loose hair, nails brushing his scalp. Their breathing slowly gradually, as did the beating of their hearts, pressed so close together. The rain had lessened to a gentle hiss above them.

“I need to clean us off before we get stuck together,” Geralt said at last, with great reluctance.

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Regis responded with a hint of a smile in his voice.

“It’s less romantic than you might think,” Geralt said, easing up carefully as Regis’ arms released him.

Regis gasped sharply as Geralt pulled out of him.

“Sorry,” Geralt said, flooded with guilt. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“You did no such thing,” Regis asserted. “My body is simply sensitized in the aftermath of copulation.”

Geralt couldn’t suppress his grin. He crawled over to his piles of clothes, picked out a relatively clean shirt, splashed a glug from his water bottle onto it, and brought it back to wipe off Regis and then himself. Once they were relatively clean and the unfortunate shirt was thrown into a corner, Geralt snuggled down close to Regis and pulled his blanket over them both. Regis’ skin was still cooler than he’d like. Geralt wanted to wrap around him like a heating pad and soak up all the chill.

“Are you all right?” Geralt asked quietly.

Regis didn’t respond immediately. He ducked his head and kissed Geralt’s jaw—a soft press of closed lips. “I’m incredibly happy here. It is a little frightening to feel such happiness.” There were more words trapped in the nonexistent space between them. Geralt could feel them crowding close behind Regis’ lips. But he held them stubbornly closed and Geralt ached silently next to him. Don’t be afraid, he wanted to say. I can hear it. But he didn’t truly know if he could.

Eventually they slept and Geralt felt some peace that Regis was comfortable enough to rest in his arms for so long. Geralt awoke to Regis shuffling under the blankets and, at first, he worried the other man was leaving. But then Regis eased down the mattress, fingernails dragging down Geralt’s sides to his hips. Regis leaned down and licked over Geralt’s abs, a teasing with the tip of his tongue. Then he folded his lips over his teeth and sucked Geralt’s dick into his mouth.

Geralt couldn’t stop from bucking up into the wet suction, mind still clouded with sleep, body heavy with bliss. Regis held his hips down with firm hands. He was stronger than he looked. Regis’ nails dug into the skin of his upper thighs, driving points of pain-pleasure. Regis mimicked Geralt’s earlier actions, but he had a hungry desperation that drove Geralt crazy. His tongue kept flicking up, licking eagerly for everything he could get.

When Geralt lost it, writhing under him, he tried to grunt out a warning, but Regis didn’t even loosen his grip. Geralt arched off his mattress as electricity roared up his spine. Regis swallowed eagerly several times, then released him carefully, turning his head to lick any traces. Dazed and drained, Geralt could hear Regis sucking his fingers.

“Tasty?” he asked, amused.

“Exquisite,” Regis said with a smile in his voice. “You must let me know when you’ve recovered enough that I can do it again.”

Geralt laughed weakly. “You need me to return the favor?”

“No,” Regis said. “I want to feel your hand again.”

So Geralt tucked Regis close in, spat in his palm, and rubbed him. Slow and gentle at first, reveling in the soft sounds Regis made, the way he couldn’t help but push into Geralt’s touch. Then a little faster, building the friction, sliding their thighs together. Regis gasped his name and Geralt wanted to kiss him so bad, he had to bite his own lip hard and painful. He brought Regis to the edge with increasing speed, using both hands to touch him as much as possible. Regis’ thighs fell apart and Geralt reached between them to rub a finger back against the soft skin there. Regis bucked into him, groaning his name again, coming hard between them, a hot burst on Geralt’s abdomen.

Slowly, Geralt eased Regis onto his back. “Sorry, I haven’t quite developed a taste for that yet,” he admitted, and went for a second shirt to wipe them off again.

When they had settled back into the blankets, Geralt had a thought that he should look at his phone to see the time. But Regis had curled up against him again, soft and drowsy as a cat in the sun. And who cared what time it was? If Regis joined them for breakfast, no one would bat an eye. Well, Cahir might be confused. And Milva’s knowing smirk would be a little annoying.

Geralt stroked a hand down Regis’ arm. “You’re still cold?” he asked, feeling the lingering chill on Regis’ skin.

“No,” Regis said. “I simply have a naturally low body temperature. It’s nothing to worry about.”

Geralt nodded slowly. He hesitated. “Your mouth…is there a reason you don’t kiss? Is it your teeth?”

He felt Regis stiffen beside him. As the silence stretched on, he could tell that Regis was thinking hard, trying to come up with a convincing explanation (lie?) and discarding them all.

Finally, Regis said, “I’m sorry. I cannot give you a reason that would meet your scrutiny. Please simply accept that there are some things I cannot do.”

Geralt huffed out a harsh breath, mind prickling with splinters of anger and hurt. “Are you asking me to trust you again? Maybe you could trust me by giving me a straight answer for once.”

Regis burrowed in closer, tucking his head against Geralt’s chest. “I just need a little more time,” he said hoarsely. “Just allow me tonight. After that I can lose you. But not now.”

Lose me? Geralt sighed and tried to force his fear and irritation down. He stroked Regis’ hair like he was comforting a child. “Okay,” he said, not understanding what he was agreeing to.

Here, so close to him on the mattress, skin on skin, breaths and heartbeats tangling, they were still smothered in darkness and silence. Let it go, Geralt told himself. Just feel this moment. But the question was crawling inside him like a live thing, pushing at the back of his brain. An itchy, prickly insect seemed to wriggle up his throat and over his tongue.

“Regis,” he murmured in the stillness. “Is there a reason why someone wouldn’t have a shadow? I’ve never heard of it before. I tried reading up on it, but couldn’t find anything. You’re the only one who would know.” It dropped like a stone. In the depths of his being, he knew the answer, but he didn’t want to.

In his arms, Regis had changed from a cuddly cat to an icy mannequin. Slowly, he pulled free of Geralt’s embrace.

He pushed up to his knees, leaning over Geralt. “I just hoped for a little more time,” he said quietly in a choked voice. “But you were right. It will never be enough. I will always want more. You will hate me for a while, I know. But I can bear it now. I must.”

“Regis,” Geralt said, feeling gutted. He wanted to pull Regis back down to him, tell him to forget all the questions, it didn’t matter, he didn’t want to know. But it was too late.

Regis pressed a smooth hand to Geralt’s forehead. “Thank you,” he breathed. Then, “Sleep now.” And like a light switching off, Geralt fell into the night.

He woke to the clatter of dishes in the kitchen below. For a moment, he thought the night visit might have been a dream, but the scents of herbs, and sex still lingered. There were faint marks of fingernails on his hips and thighs.

Geralt pulled on some clothes and descended the ladder into the house. In the kitchen, Milva was turning scrambled eggs in a skillet. Eithné was at the table munching on a piece of toast.

“You slept in,” she said, eyes crinkling in a smile. “Mommy is making cheesy eggs.”

“Awesome,” Geralt said, smoothing her unruly hair back with one hand.

Milva switched off the stove and brought the skillet to the table, depositing a spatula full of eggs on Eithné’s plate. “There’s coffee in the pot, if you want some.”

“Milva,” Geralt said in a low voice. “Did you let Regis in last night?”

She stilled, looking at him with narrowed eyes. “No, I didn’t. He was here?”

Geralt turned away, facing the counter. He leaned hard into it, heart shuddering in his chest. “I locked the doors. I always lock them. And you double check them.”

“Geralt…” Milva set the skillet down on the stove. “What are you saying? Regis isn’t…” She put a hand to her face, covering her mouth and nose. She whispered, “He wouldn’t hurt us.”

“Mommy, what’s wrong?” Eithné asked plaintively.

Milva dropped her hand from her mouth and squared her shoulders. “Nothing, honey. Geralt and I just have some business this morning.”

Down the hall, the door to the bathroom squeaked open and Cahir emerged, hair wet, face smooth and pink from his morning shave. The claw marks on his cheek were thin scabs now. He saw the look on Milva’s face and went to her, gaze questioning. Milva hugged him briefly and said something in his ear. His eyes widened and moved to Geralt.

Milva pulled away from him and went back to the stove. “We’re all going to sit down and eat our cheesy eggs and toast.” She gestured to the table. “And then Eithné is going to get on the bus and have a great day at school.”

Geralt sat next to Cahir stiffly and took a plate of eggs and toast. He had no appetite and the smell of the eggs made him slightly nauseated. He gripped his fork tightly and cut into the soft yellow mixture.

Eithné sensed the mood, and continued eating in silence, studying all of them. Milva tried to make cheery conversation and Cahir did his best to help her, but the atmosphere at the breakfast table remained heavy and tense. Geralt could barely concentrate on what was going on around him.

Finally, Eithné was on the school bus and they were alone in the house.

Cahir set both his hands on the table. “Have either of you seen the news yet?

Geralt could only stare at him blankly. He couldn’t think of anything except Regis.

Cahir’s voice was strained. “Syanna is gone. Last night something ripped the fence and doors out of the county detention center, incapacitated a dozen guards, and tore open her holding cell.”

“Another vampire,” Milva said heavily. “She wants us dead. And now Regis is walking through walls too.”

Cahir took a deep breath. “Is it possible for a vampire to be good?”

“I don’t know,” Geralt said. He felt like a lead vest on his chest was pulling him down and down. “I’ve never met one. But then, higher vampires are obviously hard to identify. Maybe all the best people are higher vampires and I just didn’t know it? I just hunt the ones who have already killed people.”

“He helped us,” Milva said resolutely. “He’s gentle and peaceful and never bothered anyone.”

“He slaughtered those alps outside The Silver,” Geralt said. He saw Milva’s shocked realization. “He ripped their limbs off their bodies. He’s a killing machine, when he wants to be.”

“No, that wasn’t him,” she said, shaking her head in disbelief. “It couldn’t be.”

Cahir put an arm around her and Milva leaned into him, blinking hard. “Why did he come here last night?” she asked. “If he’s been hiding it all this time, why did he take the chance now?”

Geralt didn’t know how to answer. “He was in the attic when I woke up. I asked him some questions he didn’t want to answer, and then he put his hand on my head and told me to sleep and I passed out.”

“Why?” Milva repeated.

“We need to contact Angoulême, Dandelion, and Anna Henrietta,” Cahir said quietly. “They may be in danger.”

“Yeah,” Geralt agreed, “You have your phone, Milva? Mine is in the attic.”

Milva started toward her bedroom when Cahir grabbed her arm. He was staring out the window. “We’ve got visitors,” he said in a tight voice. “Get your gun.”

Outside, the sound of a car door closing. Geralt went to the window, saw Syanna standing on the gravel driveway, long legs slim and sleek in her dark skinny jeans and high-heeled boots. She didn’t seem to be holding a weapon.

The passenger door opened and out stepped Dettlaff, long coat shifting around him. The moth broach on his chest stared at Geralt like a single golden eye. “I’m getting my swords,” Geralt said, already running for the closet with the gun safe in the closet where they stored their weapons. The steel he set on the kitchen counter. The silver he gripped hard in his right hand. He had no oils, no potions downstairs. And he couldn’t kill a higher vampire.

Milva and Cahir were scrambling to load their guns as Dettlaff walked across the gravel, shielding Syanna with his body. His face was sinking into bestial features, eyes narrowing, nose flattening, teeth growing into sharp points. His fingernails lengthened into thick, hard claws, sharp as bone knives.

“Anyone home?” Syanna trilled. “Don’t come out to meet us. We’ll let ourselves in.” Her voice was muffled through the glass of the window.

“Milva,” Geralt said harshly, and stopped. She wouldn’t go. She wouldn’t listen. And Dettlaff would rip her apart in an instant. His grip was white hard on his silver sword. Beside him, Cahir snapped off the safety on his gun and took aim.

Then a stream of black smoke crossed Dettlaff’s path and formed into a figure in front of the door. Regis stood facing Dettlaff, looking small in his thin sweater in the shadow of Dettlaff’s intimidating form.

“My friend,” Regis said. “Please don’t do this.”

Dettlaff stopped and stood, regarding him. “They killed Adera and Melisse,” he growled. “They imprisoned Rhena. We demand justice.”

“They are under my protection,” Regis said firmly. “They are my pack. As you would kill and maim for Rhena, so I would for these three.”

“I have tried to understand, Emiel” Dettlaff snarled. “I have tolerated your folly. But now the witcher has killed our friends. You must sever this connection. It is the definition of madness! You cannot pretend to be human anymore.”

“I’m not pretending,” Regis said. Geralt couldn’t see his face, but watched his claws extend to match Dettlaff’s. “And I’m not bluffing. I will not allow you to harm them.”

Dettlaff’s already grotesque face twisted with rage. “After all I have done for you, after everything that has passed between us, you will fight me to save one who hunts us? You have chosen a killer of our kind over your oldest friend?”

“I don’t wish to fight you,” Regis said. “But that is the way of it. You would choose Rhena over me, would you not? In fact, you already have.”

Dettlaff’s expression hardened. “So be it,” he said. He shifted and faded into a rush of black smoke streaking toward Regis, slamming into him. They both crashed into the door of the house. It splintered and spilled them onto the floor of the entryway. Milva and Cahir immediately opened fire, spraying Dettlaff with silver bullets.

He snarled and smoked out of the house, taking up position in front of Syanna again. Regis was on his feet in an instant, blasting out of the house like a jet trail to materialize in front of Dettlaff again.

“Did you kill humans to satisfy her need for vengeance?” Regis asked fiercely. “That’s what set the hunters on her trail.”

“I killed two,” Dettlaff spat. “They had committed heinous acts and deserved an early death. Do not attempt to judge me or her for delivering justice.”

“And the other three?” Regis demanded.

Dettlaff scowled. “Other vampires did her bidding, as they wished.”

“To curry favor with you,” Regis said. “They didn’t know you had already refused to kill any other humans for her sake. You thought she was getting carried away.”

“My friends helped me when I needed it,” Syanna told Regis, eyes flashing. “It was none of your concern. If you had stayed out of it, we wouldn’t be here.”

“You turned against your kind,” Dettlaff accused Regis. “You condemn us for killing, set a witcher on our trail, and think yourself the hero. Do your new friends know how many humans you have killed, how many you sucked dry to satisfy your cravings?”

“No,” Regis said softly. He flexed his clawed hands. “Shall we agree that we are both killers and walk our separate ways?”

Dettlaff gazed at him for a long moment. “I want the life of the witcher,” he said. “I will spare the others.”

Syanna’s face creased with a disbelieving frown. Milva raised her gun and ran for the door.

Cursing, Geralt dashed after her with Cahir close behind. They scrambled over the broken remains of the door and out into the gray light of day.

Milva stopped behind Regis. She had her gun aimed at Dettlaff. “You try to kill Geralt, you’ll have to kill me too, because I’m not about to stand aside.”

“Neither am I,” Regis said evenly, still facing Dettlaff. “You and Rhena will leave with your lives and we will keep ours. Call it a truce.”

Dettlaff’s eyes swept over the four of them: Milva and Cahir with guns raised, Geralt angling his sword defensively, and Regis with both clawed hands crossed in front of him.

Dettlaff bent, pushed his shoulders forward and roared with raw fury.

Regis’ face crumpled and congealed into a matching monstrous snarl and he answered Dettlaff with a fierce howl of his own, entire body tensed and ready to spring.

They stayed locked in a staring contest, each waiting for the other to make the first move. Finally, Dettlaff straightened his back slowly. His features smoothed back into those of a glowering human. His claws sank back into his fingers. Then he deftly unpinned the golden moth broach from the breast of his coat and threw it on the ground at Regis’ feet.

Regis seemed to fold into himself as his claws retracted and his face returned to normal, though tight with emotion. He stood silent and still as a statue as Dettlaff turned and went to the car.

After a moment of raking a glare over the company before her, Syanna followed him. She closed her door, started the engine, and the car spun out of the driveway, spraying gravel.

Regis’ shoulders fell. He turned and looked over the three of them. “Well,” he said. His eyes fell on Geralt’s silver sword.

“It’s all right,” Milva said, but she sounded uncertain.

Sword still raised, Geralt moved to Regis. Adrenaline coursed through him, making the very air burn sharp and dangerous.

“How many people did you kill?” he asked Regis.

Regis didn’t move, but his gaze dropped to the gravel. “It was centuries ago”

“How many?” Geralt demanded.

The sword hovered between them like a silent snake. Regis watched its movement with a look of resignation.

“Hundreds,” he said. He crouched down and picked up the moth broach. “I was addicted to blood, and humans were like cattle to us then—a lesser species. I drank my fill and then drank more, as you might gorge yourself on pig flesh and bird meat.”

“Stop making excuses,” Geralt growled.

“Yes,” Regis said bleakly. “I have killed men. It is your duty to end creatures like me. But you can only slow me down. If you slice off my head, it may take me months to recover, but I shall. I have before.” He met Geralt’s hard stare with great sadness. His hand closed tightly around the metal moth. “There are many times I would have welcomed death, but now I have my own duty. And I cannot afford to be hampered." He gazed into Milva’s tear-filled eyes and then looked at Cahir’s wary countenance. “Goodbye, my friends. You may not see me again, but I will be there.”

Without fanfare, he vanished. No sparks or smoke. No flashes of light.

Geralt loosened his grip on his sword, let it sway down. The edge of it hit the gravel with a dull clank. All the churning anger and fierce desperation drained out of him, leaving a cold, hollowed space—empty as the air before him.

Chapter Text

Ciri realized her mistake as soon as the stepped into the void around the fountain. The cold emptiness closed over her like dark water and the men in the shadows—all toughs with guns strapped to their sides—began running toward her. She managed to draw the sword on her back just before one of them shot her in the side with a taser. The shock of pain ripped through her. Then another taser hit her lower back, sending violent electricity up her spine. She fell, crying out, and they were on her, wrestling her sword away. They held her down as one man zip tied her wrists and another her ankles. Prickles and aches of lingering shocks burned through her muscles.

“Fuck you, Sigi!” she shouted. “I’ll cut your fucking face open!”

She couldn’t see him, but she heard his heavy footsteps. “Really, my dear girl. If you knew as much about me as you claimed to, you’d expect me to serve my own interests above all. Why would I lay a trap for one powerful sorceress when I could have two? You’ll still get your revenge on Philippa, and I’ll have another bargaining chip.”

She twisted like a landed fish as the men eased off her and let her thrash on the rough cement. She managed to turn herself enough to see his hulking form in its wide gray suit. “You think you can bargain with Philippa? She’ll take what she wants.”

“Oh no,” Sigi said, shrewd eyes like dark marbles under his sagging face. “I’ll take what I want with my darling Phil, as soon as she gets here. You are my key to cutting a deal with Nilfgaard.”

Right on cue, a dark portal opened, ripping the air with flames. Out of it flew two women—a blonde in a tight white dress and a familiar red-head in a beige peacoat. They both froze at the sight of the company before them and readied themselves to cast spells. But Sigi’s men were already circling, trying to herd them into the void. Ciri tried to shout out a warning to Triss, but the blast of gunfire drowned out her voice.

Sigi’s face folded into a frown. “I suppose you never know who you’ll catch in a trap,” he said.

The two sorceresses worked together, one shielding while the other flung fire, but the men all wore fire-proofed clothing and they closed in, shooting repeatedly at the shield, forcing the women back toward the fountain.

Suddenly, the scene descended into pure chaos. Men began to fall, gunfire increased tenfold. Ciri tried to twist her body for a better view. Gunmen dressed in black body armor were filling the mall and a full-on shootout had erupted between Sigi’s men and the new arrivals. Then there was the hard jab of a needle in her shoulder. She shrieked and jerked to look up at Sigi’s cold gaze. Gradually, his features faded out into darkness.

Anna Henrietta got the text a little after nine in the morning. She had just finished the first briefing of the day with Vivienne and Damien—a worrying collection of reports of violence and destruction scattered around Beauclair. She scheduled calls to the police and fire chiefs and made an appointment to visit the memorial to the murdered fishermen.

When she checked her phone, there were three lines of text from an unknown number. But the sender was unmistakable. She took a long, heavy breath, pressed her phone against her chest and stood.

The halls wore the garland trappings of the holiday season, green wreaths and boughs beginning to fade. She brushed her fingers tips against one as she walked and pine needles fell to the carpet. In the sun room, stretched out on a lounge chair, Dandelion slept. An open book was spread on his stomach and a half-drunk mimosa rested on the floor next to a notebook filled with slanting lines.

She picked up the notebook and read a few verses—something about fighting fiery ghosts. She could never keep up with his projects. Taking the ballpoint pen from its place nestled in a fold of the blanket, she wrote a little note to him on the next blank page and set the notebook back on the floor beside him. She wanted to kiss him or touch his face, but she didn’t.

On the blanket next to his knee, his phone vibrated and the screen lit up showing a call from Geralt, the witcher. It buzzed until the voicemail kicked in, and Dandelion slept on. Anna thought briefly of contacting the monster hunter, but enough damage had already been done. She had to face her fate on her own.

In the garage, it was a little difficult to convince her driver that she wanted to drive herself, but firm authority won out and soon she was on the road, weaving her way along the lakeside and up a hill to a secluded park. She imagined it was a popular place for teenagers to park and fondle each other at night. But it was empty this morning. Empty, except for the couple on the hill.

Anna climbed out of her car and shut the door. Out of habit, she smoothed her skirt and blouse with trembling fingers. Then she walked up the hill, heels sinking into the wet earth. The man watched her as though gauging a predator’s movements. He was tall and dark and imposingly handsome with pale skin and long fingernails. Beside him, Syanna looked small and thin, but no less deadly. The cold blankness of her face made Anna’s heart curl up.

“No one else?” Syanna asked.

Before Anna could reply, the man answered. “She is alone.”

Syanna smiled slightly. “So, you’re not going to hide behind other people for once in your life. No bodyguards, no gates and walls? Congratulations, you have matured after all.”

“It’s wonderful to see you,” Anna said softly. “I thought you were dead.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Syanna said, face tight.

“I’m not disappointed,” Anna replied. She pressed her hands over her ribs. “I’ve dreamed of this day for years—a chance to see you again and tell you how terribly, horribly sorry I am. I know you can never forgive me for what I did. I know I can never make it right. What you went through…” Tears started to fill her eyes and she blinked hard. “I’m glad they’re dead, the people who hurt you. I wish I’d killed them myself.”

“But you didn’t,” Syanna said fiercely. “You did nothing. I had to find someone else to help me.”

“Yes,” Anna murmured, sniffing back her tears. “You always were stronger than me.”

Syanna’s mouth flattened with some unknown emotion. “I always had to fight for what I wanted. You just put out your hand.”

Anna nodded, knowing it was true. “I thought I deserved it. I was just a stupid, spoiled child.”

“And you think things will be different now?” Syanna hissed. “Now that you’re a stupid, spoiled politician?”

“I hope so. Yes, I got the position thanks to my privilege,” Anna admitted. “But I’m not just a figurehead. I work every day to make Toussaint better and safer. I have made mistakes, but I won’t give up.”

Syanna’s lip curled. “So, you think you’ve redeemed yourself by giving speeches and doing photo ops?”

Anna’s shoulders sagged. “I told you, I can never make up for what I did to you. All I can do is plead for your forgiveness.” She reached into her purse and took out the little ornate key. “You brought this back to me. Does it mean what I hoped?”

Syanna’s eyes narrowed as she looked at the key. “I meant for my friend to unlock that awful music box and cut off the dancer’s head. But she got spooked and left too soon.”

Anna frowned. “The music box, after all this time? That’s in storage at the country house with Mother and Father’s things. I haven’t seen it since I was twelve.” She stared at her sister. “Have you been thinking about it all these years?”

Syanna’s jaw clenched and the man beside her touched her arm lightly. His eyes on her lost their frosty edge. “No…” Syanna started to say. “I just wanted to leave a clear message. The wine, the necklace…I wanted you to know that it was me. I needed you to think about what you did.”

“I never stopped thinking about it,” Anna said, feeling her throat thicken with tears. “When I first thought you might be alive…I was afraid to hope, but I wanted it more than anything.” She took another step closer. “If only you hadn’t hidden away for all these years! Why did you wait so long to come back to me?”

Syanna seemed to slowly sag into the man beside her. She was struggling to keep her face straight. “You hurt me more than anyone,” she said, voice shaking. “More than my mother who gave me away, more than your parents who committed me to a psych ward, more than the men who raped me, more than the people who protected those assholes.” Tears started to slip down her face. “I loved you so much. When we were little, I would have fought the world for you. And you stabbed me in the gut.”

Anna moved closer, struggling against the sobs swelling in her chest. “I love you, Syanna. I never stopped. I just forgot what it meant. I was a thoughtless, self-centered child and I didn’t want to see your pain. But I always loved you.”

Syanna scowled through her tears. “You’re just saying that now because you know what I can do to you and you’re scared.”

Anna reached out across the space between them and touched her wet cheek. “I am afraid. But if you want to hurt me or kill me…if that will make you free, then do it. You deserve to be free.”

For a long moment, Syanna just looked into her eyes, face crumpled and shining with tears. “Cunt,” she whispered. Then she extended both arms and wrapped them around Anna, holding her so tightly it hurt. “You never could let me have my righteous anger, you perfect bitch. I hate you so much.” Her face pressed into Anna’s shoulder and she started to sob.

Shaking with happiness, Anna lifted one hand to cup the back of Syanna’s head. Her purple hair felt warm and vulnerable against Anna’s palm. She pressed the side of her face into Syanna’s. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she murmured again and again.

The man watched them both without speaking.

Geralt paced through the dark cemetery, pupils wide to search the sloping hillside filled with gravestones. He’d always liked this neighborhood. It was quiet here, despite the hiss of an occasional car on the street below. He could see most of the headstones from here—rectangles and arches and pillars all shadowed by the night and the slant of moonlight. Some had wilted bouquets or green-slimed vases from memorials past, but most were empty except for dead leaves that blew over them.

Geralt’s ears picked up a rustle of footsteps and his hand went for his silver sword. But then the glow of a phone screen lit the face of Angoulême.

“Yo,” she said. “Whatcha doing out here?”

“Patrolling,” he said, short and gruff.

“For vampires?” she asked snidely, circling around him.

Geralt smiled bitterly. “Maybe. Ghouls and grave hags are more likely.”

She backed into a stone wall and hoisted herself up to sit on its edge. “Find anything?”

“No.” Geralt frowned. “Are you planning to sit there and watch me?”

She shrugged. “Not much else going on tonight.”

He cleared his throat. “How’s everyone holding up?”

“Well, they’re all a lot more relaxed after Dandelion’s call and update about the whole Rhena-Dettlaff situation. I can’t believe I missed all the excitement. Vampire fights and long-lost, back-from-the-dead sisters reconciling. It’s like a TV movie.”

Geralt noticed she was turning something over in her hand. It was flat and metallic and shone in the light of the moon. His eyes narrowed. “What’s that? Where’d you get it?”

She smirked and flipped to back to him. “I nabbed it from your pocket when I was walking by. It’s something he made for you, right?”

Geralt glared at her. “Yeah. Supposed to enhance my medallion. I wonder if it actually allowed him to track me.”

Angoulême cocked her head. “He spent a lot of time making it and he seemed really happy when it was done. I don’t think you need to worry about it being sketch or whatever.”

Geralt twisted it between his fingers. “I don’t know anything anymore. I can’t trust anyone. I can’t trust my own feelings. I fucking hate it.”

She crossed her ankles, scuffing her sneakers together. The holes in her cuffed jeans showed the shiny tops of her knees. “Yeah…I know what you mean. I didn’t trust anybody when I was growing up, bouncing around foster homes. You wouldn’t believe what disgusting shit people can do to each other. So, I figured I’d make my own way, trust only myself, just do me. I started running around with a gang of other loser kids, stealing and fighting and getting high. Nothing much mattered except surviving and escaping. Then I tried to lift what I thought were magic mushrooms from some hippy herb shop and I met Uncle.” She chewed on her lip, looking at her knees. “He kind of saved me…and he didn’t expect anything from me. He’s the chillest, nicest, dopest person ever. So, yeah, he’s a vampire or something. Who the fuck cares? Who gives a flying fuck?”

Geralt gritted his teeth but said nothing. The distant roar of an airplane passed overhead.

Her shoes banged against the stone wall. She lifted her head to glare at Geralt. “He was fucking in love with you and he couldn’t say anything. When you love someone, you don’t give them a cursed amulet or whatever, okay? If you think he’s gonna come back and murder us all, you’re a fucking dumbass who can’t even see what’s right there in front of him.” 

Geralt snorted. “You’re right. I was the idiot who ignored all the signs. But that doesn’t make me feel any better. He had a million chances to tell me, and he lied every minute that he didn’t. Why should I trust him if he couldn’t trust me?” He tilted his head up to the night sky. Above him, tears in the clouds exposed patches of distant stars and the lights of the faraway plane.

“Yeah, what a mystery,” Angoulême drawled. “A vampire was afraid to reveal himself to a guy who kills vampires. Wonder why. Maybe a gypsy cursed him to be a good guy. Maybe he just figured out it’s bad to kill people. Anyway, he’s cool now. Don’t get all butthurt just because he didn’t give you his life story the moment you met.”

“He should have told me the truth,” Geralt insisted roughly. “He should have told me or gotten out of my life. And then…” his voice choked off, thinking back to the sound of rain on the rafters and cool, damp skin against his. “Fuck, I don’t wanna talk about this anymore.”

Angoulême just tapped her sneakers against the stone again and laced her fingers in her lap.

He looked at the shining metal disc, then closed his hand around it and slid it into his pocket. “We’d better get back. No ghouls here. Or anything else.”

“Kay,” Angoulême murmured. She slid off the wall and walked beside him. “Next time you need a graveyard patrol buddy, just let me know.”

Angoulême refused to leave the shop so the plan was to stay there until the front door was fixed at Milva’s place, but it was very cramped with four adults and a kid crammed into the apartment above the shop. In the end, Geralt opted to stay with Angoulême while Milva, Cahir, and Eithne went to Cahir’s apartment. In the morning, they replaced Milva’s door.

Despite Angoulême’s scornful insistence that she didn’t need a bodyguard, Geralt could tell that she was happy to have him there. While he watered the rooftop garden, she perched on the bench, cross-legged drinking her milky coffee and throwing bits of her croissant to the ravens that roosted there.

Geralt frowned. “Friends of yours?”

Angoulême shook her head. “They really like Uncle. Sometimes he talked to them and it seemed like they were listening. They kind of wigged me out at first, but I think they’re tight now.”

Geralt groaned to himself and studied the birds. Their clever black eyes followed his stare. “Guess he doesn’t need an amulet to track me,” he muttered.

His phone buzzed in his coat pocket and he pulled it out, reading the caller on the screen.

“Dandelion. How’re you doing?”

“As well as might be expected after all the upheaval as of late.” Dandelion sighed. “We met briefly with Syanna and Dettlaff before they had to go back into hiding. I’m trying to be happy for my beloved, but I must admit that I have some apprehension.”

“It can’t be easy, making nice with the woman who shot you,” Geralt observed. “Did Syanna ever apologize?”

“She says she didn’t actually want to hurt me, she was only panicked and trying to defend herself. And she said she was very glad that she hadn’t killed me.”

“Well…that’s a start,” Geralt said. “You think she’s telling the truth?”

“I can only assume so,” Dandelion said gustily. “Whatever the case, Anna Henrietta adores her, so I must do my best for her sake. Also, it’s probably wise to attempt to get along with the person who has a deadly vampire for a lover, I suppose.”

“Yeah,” Geralt said. “Probably best if the rest of us stay out of the way for a while until she gets over the death of her bruxae pals.”

“Indeed,” Dandelion murmured. “Er, speaking of vampires…have you heard at all from Regis?”

“No,” Geralt said shortly.

“Oh, well, it’s just that I haven’t seen him since that night, when I was shot. He was so calming and kind to me then. I can’t imagine him murdering people the same way Dettlaff and those bruxa did.”

“We don’t really know anyone, do we?” Geralt said, feeling the words stick in his throat.

Geralt prowled around the shop looking for…what? Clues as to who Regis really was? Nothing was different, apart from gaps in the bookshelf and possibly some missing alchemical ingredients. Perhaps Regis had taken some of his favorite books and most useful herbal components wherever he’d gone. There was still half a cup of tea sitting on the counter, some notes on distillation processes, and crumbs from a piece of toast. It all smelled like Regis—the herbs, the musty books, the scents of alcohol, vinegar, and infused oils. He almost expected Regis to pop out of the kitchen or from between the shelves, holding a book, a salve, or a cup of comfort. Geralt sat at a stool on the counter and put his face in his hands. Get a fucking grip. He thought about dipping into the mandrake cordial, but to sit and drink it alone would only make the hurt worse.

He’d left a note for Angoulême, saying he’d be gone for a while and giving her the password for his bank account. She kept the shop closed and left everything the same as always. “He’s coming back,” she said firmly. “And I’m going to be here when he does.”

Cahir arrived just before noon with a bag of Zerrikanian takeout. He was still dressed in his uniform, which triggered Geralt’s curiosity. “Anyone hungry?” he asked them.

Angoulême snatched the bag out of his hands. “Dibs on the crunchy wraps.”

Geralt gave him a long look. “Beauclair PD has you delivering lunches today?”

Cahir smiled. “Actually, I’m here to request your assistance in a professional capacity. I’ve got a case that I could really use your expertise on. The drug trade has exploded recently and we’ve had increasing levels of violence as a result. Our investigators think that the burning of a church and a school are connected to the drug trade. And just yesterday there was a big shootout at the San Sebastian Shopping Center.”

“Isn’t that place shut down?” Angoulême said.

“Yes, it’s the perfect place for a showdown. These aren’t your usual gangs. They’re highly organized, trained killers. If they’re fighting over turf, innocent citizens are going to get caught in the crossfire.”

“I hunt monsters,” Geralt said firmly. “Humans are off the agenda.”

“I’m not asking you to fight anybody,” Cahir said, unwrapping a container of curry and handing it to Geralt. “I just need your enhanced senses to pick up clues. We found a lab, but it’s been long abandoned. Forensics can’t get anything useful. Just come by, sweep the room, and let me know if anything sticks out.”

“I’m supposed to stay here with the kid,” Geralt said.

“I don’t need anyone to babysit me,” Angoulême complained through a mouthful of food. “Besides, I’m totally coming with. You dweebs always leave me behind on your adventures.”

Cahir shrugged. “It’s just an old lab. Not exciting or dangerous. If you want to tag along, I can get you in.”

Geralt didn’t like it, but he also didn’t like the prospect of trying to convince Angoulême otherwise.

The drug lab was in a basement in the industrial area. The walls were covered in peeling teal paint and the furnishings consisted of a bent and rusted metal table, a couple empty vats and some warped plastic tubing. The cooks hadn’t left much behind. The floor was swept clean and only the splotches of chemical stains remained.

“They cleaned it up pretty good,” Geralt said, scanning the sparse interior. “No fingerprints, I’m sure.”

“Not even a smudge,” Cahir said glumly. “We couldn’t find a single hair or skin flake. They knew what they were doing.”

“Then I probably won’t be much help.” Geralt started to make a circuit of the room, sniffing deeply. Traces of chemicals, the strong smell of cleaning bleach, and the fumes of the factory next door seeping in through the vents. He scanned the surfaces, widening his pupils. Nothing popped out.

“How’d you find this place?” Angoulême asked Cahir. “You shake up a dealer?”

“Dealers don’t know where their fisstech is manufactured,” Cahir said. “We just happen to find this one. The owner who was renting this place out died suddenly and his relatives discovered the remains of the lab here. We think it was operational last week.”

“Fisstech?” Angoulême said, nose wrinkling. “That stuff is nasty to cook. How did nobody around here notice it?”

“There’s already plenty of chemical smells in the air in this industrial park.” Cahir said. “The business above us mixes cleaning supplies. It was the perfect cover.”

Geralt nodded. “Do you think the death of the owner was related to the closing of the lab? Maybe the gang decided he had to go?”

“As far as we can tell, he died of a heart attack. “But he was only forty-two. It’s possible the cartel here had something to do with it.”

Geralt studied a pattern of scrapes on the floor. “There was a tall cabinet here.” He raised his eyes to the shadow it left on the wall. “Something was set on top of it. What’s that pattern?” He raised up and stared at it closely. Faintly outlined on the wall was the silhouette of a flame emblem. He scratched at a splotch below it and sniffed his fingernail. “Scented wax. Our cooks were religious. Initiates of the Eternal Flame.”

Angoulême snorted. “I coulda told you that. If you dudes want to find fisstech, go to church! Kids at the youth group were scoring all the time.”

Cahir’s eyes narrowed. “What youth group?”

“At the Teen Center. We used to go there to get free pizza and donuts on Fridays. They were trying to get kids off the mean streets, or whatever. But word was going around that if you wanted to score some shit, just join the Young Flames group. The priest would hook you up. I never did. No discount on dope is worth sitting through a lecture on sin and guilt. But some of my homies scored that way and I just bought it from them.” She rolled her gum in her mouth. “Damn, I totally forgot about that scene. Wild.”

Cahir stared at her in disbelief. “You’re saying a priest of the Eternal Flame who ran a youth group is distributing fisstech?”

“Dunno, that was a few years ago. Some of my friends got on as dealers, but we don’t really keep in touch these days.”

“Hang on,” Cahir said tightly. “I need to make a call.”

As he lifted his phone and stepped away, Geralt sidled in next to Angoulême. She was stretching the wide ends of her sleeves with her thumbs in an unconscious gesture of tension.

“Are you okay here? Not freaking out?”

She made a face at him. “What’s there to freak out about, Gramps? Yeah, I snorted fisstech plenty of times. But it always gave me a headache and my nose wouldn’t stop running. Plus, I couldn’t get the same rush after a while. So I laid off. That’s all.”

“Good,” Geralt murmured. “I’m sure some of your friends weren’t quite so practical.” He felt stiff and weird next to her, like he should hug her or pat her head, but it there was no way she’d go for it. “I’m just glad you found Regis, is all.”

“Me too,” Angoulême said. “And I’m glad you also walked into his shop, even if you’ve been a real pain in the ass ever since.”

Cahir approached them before Geralt could think of a retort. “Well, we’re off to church. Father Green is no longer running the youth group, but he’s leading a congregation at the House of the Endless Light off Metinna Avenue. We’ll find him there.”

“Huh, nice cover for a drug-running operation,” Geralt mused. “Doesn’t the church of The Eternal Flame preach purity of body and mind? Seems kinda off brand for them.”

Angoulême laughed. “Money is never off brand.”

The church was smaller that Geralt had expected—white and red with flame murals painted around the front door. A bronze sculpture of a flame graced the courtyard, its golden surface newly burnished and glowing, even in the meager light of the clouded day.

Inside, they found it empty. Rows of pews crossed the floor before the altar with another flame done in metalwork. This one was fashioned from flat strips of red and yellow plating that climbed over a screen of woven silver. On the altar before it, a single huge orange candle burned slowly, wafting the scent of honey and lavender. Racks of smaller candles branches out like wings on the sides of the metal frame, but none of them were lit.

When Cahir knocked on the door to the church office, no one answered. He tried the knob but it was clearly locked.

“Check under the pews?” Angoulême said. “In the holy books? In the offering plate?”

“I need a warrant,” Cahir said with a grimace.

“I don’t,” Geralt said, pacing toward the altar to examine the candles. They were red and smelled of spices, like the wax in the lab. “I’m just a wayward child looking for a flame to light my path.”

Angoulême chuckled and kicked idly at the back of a pew. “This place is fucking nuts. Are all these people pyros or what? No wonder that big church downtown burned up.” She strolled toward the door. “I’ll watch the entrance to warn you so you don’t have to use your super-convincing acting when they catch you pulling candlesticks and poking the holy relics.”

“Fine.” Geralt prowled around the chapel looking for clues and secret compartments. On the surface, it looked fine. No chemical smells, no traces of anything suspicious. “We need to get into that office.”

Cahir raised his hands. “Absolutely not. This isn’t a monster hunt. We’ll catch these dirtbags, but we have to do it right or they’ll get off. Breaking and entering is not the answer.”

“Yo, someone’s coming,” Angoulême said. “Hide behind the piano.”

“What?” Cahir demanded. But Geralt reacted without thinking, pulling Cahir with him into the curtained alcove beside the shiny black piano. They nearly tripped over a couple of guitar cases and a drum set, but managed to steady themselves.

“Why are we hiding?” Cahir hissed. “I want to talk to that priest.”

“Relax,” Geralt told him. “You’re in uniform. You want to get him on the defensive right away?”

He could hear Angoulême’s voice through the curtain and strained his ears to pick out the words.

“Just a little, man,” Angoulême pleaded, sniffling hard. “I just a need a little fire to get through the day. You know how it is.”

A man’s voice answered her, low and crackling. “My poor dear, you have come to the right place. Are you willing to pray with me? The Eternal Fire will light your path.”

“And then you’ll give me some…something to help?” she said in a small, scared voice that didn’t even sound like her at all. “I don’t have much money, but look at this necklace. It’s pure platinum!”

“Even the humblest offering is priceless in the service of the Flame,” the man said. “Come with me and I will find you comfort.”

Their footsteps moved down the aisle and passed the curtained alcove, moving toward the office. When Geralt heard the key turn in the lock, he peeked past the edge of the curtain. Rush in and ruin her ruse or risk Angoulême getting locked in a room with a potentially dangerous drug supplier? He turned to Cahir. “You stay here.”

Cahir nodded, jaw clenched.

Geralt strolled out of the alcove and up the aisle at a pace that he hoped wasn’t fast enough to alarm anyone. The door to the office was closing behind them. “Suzy!” he barked.

The door stopped, then opened wide. The man framed in the doorway was non-descript—thin and middle aged, with brown hair and large glasses. “Friend of yours?” he asked Angoulême who was glaring at Geralt over his shoulder.

“Uh, yeah…” she said. “He’s looking to buy too. Sure, he looks super old. But he’s cool.”

Geralt fought the urge to wince. “I know you told me to wait by the car, Suzy, but I got worried.”

“Nothing to worry about, Jerry,” she said, one eye starting to twitch. “This nice man is going to help us out.”

The man looked uncertain about that suddenly. “Perhaps you can come at a later time…”

Angoulême gripped his sleeve. “Dude, we need it now. I’ve got this necklace and he’s got cash.” She raised her eyebrows at Geralt, who took the hint and got out his wallet.

The man hesitated. “Who referred you to us?”

“It was one of the kids who used to go to Father Green’s youth group,” Angoulême said. “Matias.”

The man turned slowly to look at her. His eyes were small behind his wide glasses. “I don’t think I can help you both today.”

He pushed Angoulême out of the office with him and locked the door after them. “You don’t appear to be true acolytes of The Flame.”

“Oh come on, man!” Angoulême whined, grabbing at the front of his coat. “We’re dying here. Just a quarter gram is all I’m asking.” She wrapped her arms around him in a desperate parody of a hug. “You’re our only hope.”

He yanked her off. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Please leave this place of worship.” When he pushed her aside and tried to stomp away, Geralt caught his arm.

“We’re not done yet,” Geralt said in a low, threatening voice.

“Jerry,” Angoulême said, warning him quietly. “It’s okay. Just let him go. We’ll find another source.”

After a long moment of hesitation, Geralt released the furious man and watched him flee the church. “There goes our only lead.” The front door slammed shut. “And he’s probably going to call in some muscle, or worse—the cops.”

Cahir yanked the curtain back, glowering. “What the hell was that little charade?”

“Chill, dipshits,” Angoulême ordered. “You both need to have a little more faith in me, you know?” She raised both her hands and showed them her catch: a brown leather wallet in one and the ring of keys in the other. “Fucking legend, yo.”

“Fucking legend,” Geralt repeated, grinning.

“Fucking hell,” Cahir said, covering his face with one hand. “How am I going to explain this in my paperwork?”

“We’ll think of something,” Geralt said, patting him on the shoulder.

Inside the locked room, they found a desk with a computer, filing cabinets, and a bookshelf. It was nothing out of the ordinary in terms of an office.

While Angoulême started trying different keys on the filing cabinet, Cahir pawed through papers. “We have to be quick,” he said. “That person may be bringing more. Does it look like there’s a car key on that ring? He won’t go far without noticing that’s missing.”

“No car keys,” Angoulême said. “You need to relax, officer.”

Geralt studied the bookcase. There was an odd smell coming from it and the books were remarkably uniform. He looked down and noted the narrow line of clean floor against one half of the bookcase where dust was pushed aside and into the corner. Almost as though something had slid over it. He started feeling around for hidden buttons or levers.

Angoulême crowed loudly. “Found the dope, my dudes.” She lifted a plastic bag filled with white powder. “About half a pound, I guess. Not exactly large scale, but they have a whole network of churches.”

Cahir examined it. “Not really the bust I wanted to make, but it’s something.”

“Probably more in here, if I can figure out how to open the bookcase,” Geralt said, still poking at cracks and crannies. “Where’s the crooked wall sconce when you need it?”

“Ooh, a secret passage! I’m the puzzle game master,” Angoulême declared. She scanned the room and started pulling on random objects.

“We need to go,” Cahir said, looking nervous. “Back to the car, then I’m calling my office.”

“And give them a chance to hide the evidence?” Angoulême scoffed. “We’re not giving up.”

“We might have to,” Geralt said, glaring at the bookcase. “The switch is hidden really well. Let the cops look for it.”

“No way,” Angoulême declared. “The key to these games is to try everything. Something will work.” She picked up a coffee mug from the desk.

To the shock of all, the front of half the bookcase slid back over the other side with a soft whir of hydraulics, revealing a huge safe door with a keypad. Geralt shot a disbelieving look at the cup in Angoulême’s hand.

Cahir frowned at the door. “We’re never going to figure out the code—”

Before he could finish, the safe door made a snapping noise and unlatched, opening outward with slick speed. Out of it stepped two men wearing long-sleeved white shirts with a fiery rose emblazoned on them. They both held long black automatic rifles pointed at the three in the room.

“Guess it wasn’t the mug,” Angoulême muttered.

The door with the keypad led to a dark staircase that descended deep underground. Geralt tried to keep track of the twists and turns, they made, forced to walk with a gunman ahead and behind. They’d taken Cahir’s service weapon and Geralt’s knives and Angoulême’s pepper spray and brass knuckles. There wasn’t much else to do except comply and wait for an opportunity, Geralt thought bleakly. He’d thought the Knights of the Flaming Rose were a bunch of deluded fanatical vigilantes. He’d never imagined them working for the drug trade.

Underground, there were many doorways and the wait smell of chemicals and sewer water, but he couldn’t see what exactly was going on. Then they were brought through a wide-open chamber with barred cages set into the walls. The cages were all empty, but he saw blood stains and claw marks on the bars and walls. Something about the place rang a bell in the back of his head and he tried to concentrate on bringing the memory back. Had he been here before? No…now he could see it. The picture from the packet with Cirilla standing near the tattooed man. She’d been here, standing in the center, frowning. He glanced up at the opposite wall and saw the security camera training its red eye on them.

“Face forward,” the gunman behind him barked.

Geralt obeyed, scowling. Cahir met his eyes briefly, but they couldn’t communicate anything. Angoulême looked on edge, but thankfully didn’t say anything for once. He cursed himself for bringing her along. They hadn’t been blindfolded, which never boded well for the prospect of being released alive.

Footsteps sounded behind them and a rough voice said. “Who do we have here?” The speaker circled around to look at them and Geralt realized it was the same man from the photo—tattooed sleeves on his arms, shaggy yellow hair, a crooked nose warped from fights.

“They were poking around the House of Endless Light,” one of the gunmen says. “Seems like they were looking for drugs.”

“An old man, a girl, and a cop?” the tattooed man said with a sneer. “Where the hell did you fuckers come from?”

Geralt took a chance. “Nilfgaard,” he said. “We were sent to find a certain someone. We don’t care about your drugs. We just need to find Cirilla.”

“Nilfgaard?” the man said, eyebrow raised. “You don’t exactly look like secret ops.”

“The cop has an accent,” one gunman said.

“I’m a private contractor,” Geralt said. “This is a street kid we hired to try to get us in.”

The gunman handed the tattooed man their IDs taken from their wallets. He studied them. “Officer Cahir, Geralt of Rivia…and the little kitten doesn’t have a name?”

“Suzy,” Angoulême said, showing her teeth. “What’s your name, sleazeball?”

He grinned back at her. “Call me Junior.”

“Hey Junior,” Geralt said. “We only care about Cirilla. We know she was here. We know you didn’t keep her. Just give us the info and we’re out of your hair.”

“Oh, you’ll be be out of my hair,” Junior said darkly. “But I have a few questions for you first. What do you know about Nilfgaard hitting Sigi Reuven at the abandoned mall? Nobody’s talking. Is Nilfgaard moving into trafficking Sigi’s territory? I need answers.”

Geralt tried not to show any surprise.

Cahir said, “We weren’t on that operation. We don’t know what their objective was.”

“Ain’t that convenient,” Junior said snidely. “And why is a cutie like Cirilla coming to me, asking to buy dimeritium anchors? If you’re on her trail, surely you know what she’s planning.”

“That’s why they’re asking you, dumbass,” Angoulême spat. “She’s gone rogue. They’re trying to find her.”

Junior looked her over, up and down. “You know, anyone ever told you that you kind of look like her? That bitch sliced her way through a shitload of my men on her way out. I never got the chance to pay her back. But I could roleplay a little with you, yeah?”

Geralt’s arm automatically jerked to go for a weapon, but he had nothing. He felt Cahir tense beside him.

Junior waved dismissively at them. “Don’t worry, you two get a quick death. We hose down the blood here every weekend after the fights. Easy cleanup. For real, I’d really like to keep you longer and use you in the ring. You look like you could put on a show.” His eyes met Geralt’s. “Especially with those knives. But if you’re really with Nilfgaard, it’s not worth the risk.”

He nodded at the gunmen knights. “I’ll take the girl. You take care of them.”

One of the gunmen grabbed Angoulême by the arm and pulled her away. She kicked and clawed at him. Geralt tried to clear his mind, calculating angles and potential bullet paths. He had one chance. He waited until the gunman wrestling Angoulême had his back to him, then turned to the other gunman and sent a blast of Igni directly at him. The man shrieked and covered his face. Cahir immediately attacked him.

Geralt turned and charged at the knight who’d let of Angoulême to swing his gun around. Two leaping steps, dodging his first barrage, flying into the man, pulling him down to the floor. They rolled. Another gun went off somewhere. Geralt turned the fallen man, trying to wrestle his weapon away from him. He prayed that Cahir could handle the other one. Kicking his legs and pressing an elbow to the fallen man’s windpipe, he managed to get hold of the rifle. But before he could raise it, Junior was standing over him, a pistol pointed at his head. Angoulême screamed.

Junior’s lips lifted in a mad grin. “Any closer, bitch, and I’ll blow his brains all over your shoes.”

Geralt froze.

A stream of black smoke swirled behind Junior. A wet thwacking noise sounded and Junior shrieked, falling to the ground. Blood began to pool behind his legs. Angoulême darted in and kicked him in the head, then reached down and yanked the pistol away from him.

Geralt rolled to his feet, training his weapon on the knight he’d taken it from. He looked over to see Cahir fighting the second knight, the two of them grappling with the gun. Then the black mist closed in and that knight collapsed, blood spilling from a cut on the back of his legs.

“Regis!” Geralt yelled, pulse pounding. “Where are you?”

The smoke solidified into a man’s form. Regis’ face was warped and terrifying. His long claws dripped blood.

“What the fuck?” Junior squealed, cringing on the ground.

“I didn’t kill them,” Regis said in a low voice. “I leave their fates to you.” He disappeared.

“Uncle!” Angoulême cried. She held the pistol loosely, eyes bright.

“Regis!” Geralt shouted. “Don’t you fucking leave again!” He cast wild eyes around the room, searching, but there was nothing.

Then he heard a soft voice next to his ear. “Forgive me. Ten months with you. Ten months in five hundred years. Let me have that.”

Geralt spun around, reaching for him, but his hands touched nothing but air.

They left Junior and the gunmen on the floor and raced to escape. Junior shouted curses and threats after them. “Motherfuckers, I’m going to burn you to the ground!” They found their way back through the tunnels, following a trail of disarmed men in various states of injury. Their phones didn’t work, unable to get signals through the thick concrete, so they rushed without stopping. When they climbed the stairs and the door to the church swung open, they all sagged with relief.

Cahir immediately called his department and Geralt and Angoulême went out to the street. Light rain sprinkled from the sky, shifting down on them. Angoulême leaned against the car and raised her face up, closing her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt said uselessly. “We never should have brought you.”

“You’re goddamn lucky you did,” she said. “You guys never would have gotten in without me.”

“Not sure that was lucky,” Geralt said with a sigh. “By the time the cops get here, you can bet Junior will be gone. Now we have another enemy.”

Angoulême smiled, eyes still closed. “Uncle will protect us.”

Pain gripped Geralt’s heart. He closed his own eyes against the falling rain. “I can’t stand it. He won’t leave. He won’t stay. He could be standing next to us right now and we wouldn’t know it.”

“That’s what’s so awesome,” Angoulême told him. “It’s like having a guardian spirit. Sure, I wanna talk to him, but I know at least that he’s listening.”

Geralt blinked at her. Raindrops stuck to his eyelashes. “It would be a lot easier if I could see him.”

“Easier?” Angoulême asked, opening her eyes. “Easier to put a sword through him? He’s not stupid, Geralt. He’s not coming back until he knows you’ll be cool.”

“Who’s not cool?” Geralt demanded. “Obviously I’m not going to stab him. I just want some fucking answers, that’s all. He owes me that much.”

Police sirens sounded in the distance. Cahir emerged from the church and walked over to their car. “If you two don’t want to go through questioning—and I’d rather you didn’t—you’d better take off now. I called a cab to pick you up three blocks down, by the gas station.”

“Sure,” Geralt said. “Sorry we fucked up your investigation.”

Cahir laughed. “I’m just glad we got out alive. Not sure exactly what we uncovered, but we’ll shut it down.”

Geralt and Angoulême caught the ride back to Herbs and Remedies, showered, and spent the afternoon playing video games. It was a good distraction. Angoulême seemed to be in decent spirits, considering the violence and terror she’d just faced. Maybe kicking Geralt’s ass on the Xbox was cheering her up.

Geralt worked hard to convince her to come to Milva’s for dinner. He didn’t like the thought of them all being separated. But Angoulême was reluctant to leave the shop. Since Milva wasn’t answering her phone, Geralt figured she was probably still working at the auto place. He decided to order pizza and bring it by. After he agreed to get a deep-dish garlic-lovers’ pie for Angoulême, she finally relented.

They got in Roach and drove to the pizza place, then straight to Milva’s. Geralt hoped Cahir wouldn’t be out all night dealing with Junior’s gang. He also wondered how they’d explain away a vigilante vampire running around hamstringing Knights of the Flaming Rose that were carrying automatic weapons. Well, it wasn’t his problem any more.

As they drew closer to the house, the wail of sirens filled the air and Geralt’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel. Jumping orange light illuminated black smoke rising from their neighborhood.

“Shit,” Angoulême breathed. “Floor it, Gramps!”

They sped down the streets and stopped with a jerk in front of a phalanx of firetrucks and ambulances blocking the driveway. The auto shop was a blackened ruin and beyond it, the low gray house was swarming with flames.

Chapter Text

Ciri woke slowly, blinking against the harsh light. Her head ached and so did her muscles. She tried to sit up slowly. Her hands were still zip-tied behind her back and her shoulders gave a silent scream of protest as she strained into sitting position. She was on a wide bed with a crisp, clean white cover. The twin lamps and the overhead light illuminated every detail of the room. She scanned for cameras but didn’t see any. If there, they were well-hidden. She couldn’t tell what time of day it was; the curtains were shut tight. A watercolor picture of a wine bottle graced the wall opposite her. Judging by the bland furnishings and tight proportions, she was currently locked in a hotel room, probably one of Sigi’s.

Stretching out her senses, she searched for a node of power, but the space was cold and dead empty. They had placed the anchors somewhere outside, keeping her trapped in the void. Ciri took a deep breath and squirmed off the bed, to her feet. Time to find a way out.

Geralt and Angoulême squeezed between the fire trucks and found themselves facing the inferno. Yellow and red flames crackled under billowing black smoke. All around them, people in uniforms were moving and shouting. Hoses sprayed arcs of water, sending ash and gray smoke flying.

“Is anyone in there?” Geralt shouted at one of the responders.

She turned hurriedly to him. “We pulled out an adult woman. We’re still trying to get to the other person in the house.”

“Eithne!” Angoulême screamed, jerking toward the fire.

Geralt grabbed her arm to keep her back. He looked at the firefighter. “There should be a little girl here. You didn’t find her?”

The firefighter gave him an unhappy look. “Chief says no entry. The fire’s burned at least seventy percent of the building. It’s unlikely we’ll recover anyone else.”

“No,” Geralt said, adrenaline rising. He pushed Angoulême back toward the fire truck. “Stay here, dammit. I’ll find her.”

Angoulême nodded. Tears started running down her face.

The firefighter tried to stop him, but he pulled away and ran. Even several yards from the house, he could feel the withering heat. It seared his face. His eyes stung and watered. He could barely see through the heat and smoke. No way in. He turned and circled the perimeter, dodging other firefighters, looking for another entry point.

But the more he scanned the crackling, smoking structure, the more despair sank into him. There was no getting out of that house. He found the back door streaked black and cracked outward. Forming the sign for Aard, he sent a heavy gust into it. The door shook and splintered. Dark smoke streamed out. He threw Aard at it again, trying to clear the air. But he only got a glimpse of the smoldering interior before the smoke closed in again. He’d drain himself long before he cooled a path into the house.

Panicked rage came over him and he kicked at the splinters of the door breaking off hot coals to burn holes in his jeans. He blinked hard, eyes stinging and streaming. He’d just have to take a deep breath and barrel through. Maybe he could get to her in time, although with the intensity of the fire, it seemed unlikely.

Just as he was about to form Aard again, a black shape emerged from the smoke, hurtling toward him. Geralt backed away, mouth falling open. Someone stumbled out of the house draped in a gray blanket. Another blanket wrapped around the burden in his arms—Eithne. Her unconscious face was dark with soot, but her tangled red-gold was as bright as ever.

The man’s face and hands were blackened by the smoke and ash and smeared with blood. But Geralt knew those dark eyes.

“She’s not breathing,” Regis gasped, laying Eithne down a safe distance from the fire. “I’ll try to clear her airways. You get the medics.”

Geralt raced around the side of the house, shouting for the EMTs at the top of his lungs. He returned with a pair of medics, their bags bouncing after them. When they got there, Eithne was coughing and gasping as Regis leaned over her. They started her on an oxygen tank and Regis moved away to let them work. He kept to the shadows and watched. They both watched and waited in the hot, crackling darkness.

When Eithne started responding to the medic’s questions, nodding and waving, sweet relief washed into Geralt. He swallowed hard and looked at Regis. He didn't appear burned but walking through that kind of heat couldn't be painless. Vampires hate fire, he thought, remembering the entry in Vesemir’s bestiary. How much had it hurt him to run into that house?

As it became clear that Eithne would be all right, Regis carefully backed away into the darkness, clearly waiting for the right moment to disappear. His eyes met Geralt’s.

“Don’t,” Geralt said, voice shaking. “Don’t you dare leave now.” He felt like cracks were breaking him slowly and if Regis vanished again, he’d crumble to dust. “We need you, dammit.”

Regis hesitated, watching him. Then he nodded and gestured to the EMTs. They were putting Eithne onto a stretcher and bringing her back to the ambulance. Geralt and Regis followed.

At the scene of the ambulance, they saw Milva stretched out on a gurney, eyes closed, with an oxygen mask over her slack face. Angoulême stood by her. When she saw them, her face crumpled and she ran to Regis, wrapping her arms around him.

“They’re going to be fine,” Regis told her. “Don’t distress yourself. Smoke inhalation and minor burns. They’ll recover in a few days’ time.”

“Thanks to you,” Geralt said. “Is this what you’re going to do from now on? Rush into to save us, then disappear again until the next time we’re in trouble?”

Regis dropped his eyes. “I assumed I was no longer welcome in this circle.”

“Uh, of course you are!” Angoulême declared, wiping tears and snot off her face. “Everyone else wants you and our votes outweigh Geralt’s.”

Geralt snorted. “Well, when you save a little girl from a burning house, it’s hard to be mad at you,” he admitted gruffly. “We’ll talk about stuff later. You both wanna ride with me to the hospital?”

They waited in a room painted pale green. A couple of wrinkled magazines covered the table in the center. The beeping of machines and the flat voice on the intercom punctuated the slow passage of time. Angoulême was curled up on the couch, picking threads out of her sweater sleeves. Regis sat silently with a paper cup of water in his hands, hardly moving. He had scrubbed most of the soot off his face in the bathroom, but he still reeked of smoke and his clothes were gray with ash. At one point, a few shards of glass clattered to the floor from where they’d worked their way out of his skin.

Cahir had arrived, soon after them, and he’d had been pacing constantly, hands shoved in his jacket pockets. His face was set tight and hard.

Geralt felt like he was trapped in a bad dream. His mind kept hurtling back to Milva and Eithne strapped to gurneys with masks over their faces.

“You sure they’re going to be okay?” he asked Regis again.

“Yes,” Regis said. “I shielded them from the fire with the flame-retardant blankets that I took from the firetruck. Unfortunately, I can’t transport my body between planes when carrying another being, but I moved as quickly as I could. Milva was easy to get to, on the first floor. She’s unconscious because they gave her a sedative to keep her from running back into the house for her daughter. Breathing and speaking will be painful until their throats heal, but I’m certain the health professionals here will provide pain relief.”

“It’s our fault,” Angoulême croaked in a low voice. “It’s my fault.”

Cahir stopped pacing. He stared at the wall with a haunted expression.

“No,” Geralt said. “We didn’t make them start that fire.”

“We did this,” Angoulême said fiercely. “We had to go looking trouble, and then Aunty Milva and the kid got the blowback. Shit!” She ripped a long thread out of her sweater. “I should have shot Junior in the face when I had the chance. Now you guys don’t even have a home.”

“It’s okay,” Geralt said. “I’ll stay with you, and Milva and Eithne can bunk with Cahir.”

Cahir snorted a harsh laugh. “I got a call on the way here. They firebombed my apartment building too.”

“What?” Geralt sat bolt upright. “Okay, we’re taking them down. Right now.”

“They’re gone!” Cahir shouted. “A whole squad of officers and we couldn’t even catch a gang leader with his hamstrings cut. He disappeared with all his drugs and guns.”

“There were cameras there,” Geralt said. “Someone was watching. They must have swooped in.”

“I will find him,” Regis said, low and quiet. “Then he will tell me who set the fires. And I will find them too.” The cool menace in his voice made the hairs stand up on the back of Geralt’s neck.

“Damn,” Angoulême murmured. “I’m glad you’re on our side, Uncle.”

Before Geralt could say anything, Dandelion shuffled into the room, his arm still in a sling. Accompanying him was Vivienne, looking healthy and neat in a brown skirt suit.

After Regis repeated his assessment and assurances that mother and daughter would be fine, Dandelion sat down heavily with a grave look on his face. “Such dreadful news, my friends. Do the police have any leads?” He looked at Cahir.

“We have a few,” Cahir said tersely. “Right now, I’m just focused on their recovery. And then we have to look for housing.”

Vivienne stepped forward. “I believe we can help you with that. The governor heard of your loss and, in light of all your assistance, she would like to offer you a piece of property.”

“It’s a vineyard!” Dandelion crowed. “Well, a small personal one. I haven’t been there, but it looks quite charming. Corvo Bianco they call it, and it’s just up the hill from the museum. You can enjoy the quiet of the outskirts and be downtown in twenty minutes!”

“Wait, the governor is giving us one of her houses?” Geralt said slowly. “Is this legal?”

“It’s her personal property,” Vivienne said. “She bought it when it was foreclosed and hoped to improve the buildings and land, but hasn’t had the chance yet. The deed will be made for joint ownership by Milva and Geralt. They can invite others to co-sign.”

“How much fixing up is this place going to need to be habitable?” Cahir said warily.

Dandelion shrugged. “We can tour it tomorrow. In the meantime, I’ll pay for any hotel rooms you might need. I assume Milva and Eithne will be recovering at the hospital for a few days at least?”

“A safe assumption,” Regis affirmed.

“Then we can remodel it and surprise them when they get out!” Dandelion attempted to clap his hands, but just slapped the hand trapped by his sling. “It will be fantastic! I’m seeing gold and silver accents and Art Deco flourishes. What do you think?”

“Uh, sure,” Geralt said still a little dazed by the news.

When they were finally allowed to see Milva and Eithne, they all crowded into the hospital room. Eithne was sleepy, but she gave them a thumbs up and a weak smile. Milva was more alert and she wasn’t wearing a mask, although she still couldn’t speak. Her eyes widened when she saw them all. There were a few small bandages on her hands, but she looked generally in good shape. She reached out to Regis and when he approached, she took his hand. Her eyes shone with pooling tears.

“It’s nothing,” he said. “You would do the same for me, if you could.”

Then she reached for Cahir and he took her other hand, stroking it gently. “I…” his voice choked and he blinked hard. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

Angoulême sniffed back her own tears and ducked out of the room without a word. Geralt followed her out into the hall. She backed into the wall and slowly slumped down to the carpet, arms covering her face.

“It’s not your fault,” Geralt said firmly. “Listen to me. You are not responsible. Those assholes are. And I’m going to find them and make sure they never hurt anyone again.”

She scrubbed her face with her sleeve. “Promise?”

“Absolutely.”

A voice came from the room. “Geralt.” Regis was standing in the doorway. “Please allow me to handle this issue.”

“You can come along if you want,” Geralt said. “But I’m not going to let you take all the glory. I want to look into that motherfucker’s face as he squirms at my feet.”

Geralt and Regis took Roach and drove across town. For a while, they sat in silence, the lights of passing cars sweeping over them. Geralt wondered if Regis resented his presence, if he was slowing down the vampire. He wondered what Regis was thinking, what he should say to settle things between them. Every time he tried to open his mouth, a caustic pool of resentment and hurt welled up inside him.

When they stopped at a red light. Regis cleared his throat. The halo of color around the stoplight glowed. The crosswalk signal blinked orange. “Nothing has changed,” Regis murmured. “I don’t know why you’ve suddenly begun to tolerate my presence again.”

Geralt kept his face forward. “There’s no point in pretending I’m going to hunt you. After everything you’ve done for us…”

Regis spoke in a monotone. “I still drained hundreds. No matter how many I saved, it won’t restore their lives. You said that any monster who killed would do so again because it was in their nature. You said they can’t change.”

Geralt’s mouth twisted. “You remember that conversation, huh?”

“I’ve thought about it every day since.”

The light turned green and Geralt moved his foot to the accelerator. “Look, Regis, all that bullshit I talk about my code and the way of the witcher is completely made up. There is no code. I kill monsters when I get paid for it, and when I think it will prevent human deaths. Killing you—besides being practically impossible—is not going to help anyone.”

Regis thought about it for a moment. “It might help those arsonists who endangered my friends,” he said quietly. “Because as long as I can live, I’m going to hunt them.”

Geralt felt a shiver pass through him. “I’m with you there.”

They circled the roundabout and drove past the sign. Welcome to Beauclair: City of Enchantment. Regis watched the road without speaking for a long time. Then he spoke in a quiet, firm voice. “I must tell you I never intended for my deception to go so far. I kept telling myself to treasure every moment, because soon it would be over; you’d realize the truth. But my weakness built inside me until my selfish desire overcame my common sense.”

Geralt didn’t know what to say. His thumbnails dug into the steering wheel. “I get it. I know why you lied to me for all that time. But that doesn’t mean I’m okay with being strung along like that. I felt like a total naïve idiot for trusting you, and for…getting involved with you.”

“I was the fool, not you,” Regis said. “I know you can never forgive the hurt I caused you. In truth, I am immensely grateful just to be sitting here near you, talking to you like this. I never thought I’d have the chance again.”

Geralt’s chest tightened. “I’m glad too. But it can’t be like before. I want you back in our gang, but…no messing around, nothing romantic or physical. It’s just not going to work.”

“Yes,” Regis said softly. “That seems wise.” A car clattered over an uneven stretch of pavement. Regis glanced ahead. “Turn here and pull into this lot. We can get into the sewers through here.”

“The sewers?” Geralt pulled into the driveway and slotted his car into a space.

“Where did you think those men took you? There’s a whole network of tunnels for smuggling illicit contraband and carrying on illegal activities.”

“Hmm,” Geralt grunted. “You think Junior ended up somewhere around here?”

“He mentioned fights, that he wanted to pit you against an opponent. There is an underground combat ring here, known for its unusual participants and novel scenarios. I deduced that Junior and his people may take part.”

Moving to his gear in the trunk, Geralt pulled on his body armor, then prepped his steel sword with hanged man’s venom and slid it onto his back. He drank a thunderbolt potion and wiped his mouth, wincing at the taste.

“Better take the silver sword too,” Regis said quietly. “You never know what you’ll meet in places like these.”

The tunnels were a maze, but Geralt could feel the faint vibration of faraway movement. And Regis could scent blood. They sped through the sewers until they found a battered steel door. Regis smoked through it and opened it for him. When Geralt entered, he saw a guard crumpled on the floor, moaning and clutching a gash on his side.

“Before we continue, you should tell me if you wish me to hold back,” Regis said in a low growl, claws half-extended. “I can incapacitate them, although it takes more precision and leaves you open to the possibility of attack from a downed combatant. What would you like me to do?”

Geralt frowned. “I don’t know how much any of these guys were involved. Drug smuggling, human trafficking, selling fisstech to kids…there are a lot of scumbags here. But I’m after a few particular ones. Let’s leave them alive for now. If you do happen to cut an artery by accident, I won’t be crying about it.”

“Very well.” Regis’ face warped into its bestial form and his claws lengthened even more. “Let us continue.”

They swept through the corridors, cutting down guards as they came. Regis was a dark blur flying from one gunman to another while Geralt mopped up whoever was left with Axii and his steel. The sound of voices grew louder and soon became shouts and cheers. They broke through wide double doors into the wide room where the crowd was gathered around a caged ring where a man with a spiked mace faced a misshapen, hairy creature. Man vs. werewolf, Geralt thought grimly. The spectators were a motley collection of men—some in suits and others in tracksuits, some with drinks and others with guns.

They had already begun to scatter—perhaps the call had already gone out. Bullets began to blast around Geralt. Two lodged into his armored vest, jolting him. He cast Quen and launched into the fray, swinging. Regis was bringing down shooters left and right.

Then the door to the caged ring flew open and the werewolf bounded out. It set its sights on Geralt and flew forward. Geralt had just enough time to draw his silver before the beast was on him. After that it was the same old ballet of twists and rolls and quick cuts. His Quen faltered and broke under the barrage of strikes from the werewolf’s claws. But a second later, his blade slid deep into the monster’s neck.

The room was clear now, except for the groaning and cursing of crippled men. The reek of spilled alcohol and blood filled the space. Regis waited, watching Geralt with an alien, frightening gaze. “This way,” he growled.

They moved through a wide archway into a dark chamber. Geralt’s medallion shook into a frenzy, bouncing on his chest. Snarls and hisses and roars echoed ahead of them.

“They’ve released the creatures,” Regis said calmly. “I suggest you drink another elixir. Allow me to take on the shaelmaar and the rock trolls.”

“What?” Geralt said blankly. Then a small pack of madly grinning nekkers came running at them, followed by two endrega warriors and a bony green wyvern. Thundering vibrations behind them indicated even larger beasts in the darkness beyond.

“Oh joy,” Geralt muttered, reaching for a swallow potion on his belt.

The nekkers scattered when they saw him and the wyvern seemed more interested in chasing after them for a quick meal. But the endregas flanked Geralt, venomous tails raised. He sprayed one with fire, then slashed at the tail strike of the second one, lopping off the hooked barb on the end. The insectoid screamed and struck at him with its forelegs, dragging a pointed claw across his chest. It slid harmlessly over his armor, but knocked him backward and he dropped into a roll. Shrieking with rage and pain, the second endrega tried to stab him with its legs, but missed and Geralt jerked up to a crouch, sweeping his blade to cut off the nearest two legs. The monster tottered and lurched sideways.

Roars and booms of impact shook the floor, but Geralt couldn’t look up to see how Regis was faring. He turned his attention on the other endrega, but before he could take it out, a blur to his left made him duck defensively. A harpy swooped over his head, with a sharp cry, just managing to drag a claw over his scalp. He swung at her, but was too late, slicing off a bunch of feathers and nothing more. Warm blood seeped through his hair down the back of his neck.

The endrega with the severed tail lunged at him, forcing him back. He threw Aard at it, unbalancing it enough to sink his blade into its open maw, then withdrew it quickly. The harpy was already diving toward him. He sent a blast of Igni into her face and watched her drop to the ground, writhing. Another fast strike ended her.

Wiping sweat out of his eyes, he surveyed the battlefield. It seemed the wyvern had eaten one of the nekkers before Regis cut its throat. The other nekkers were nowhere to be found. The remaining endrega was scuttling helplessly backwards, trying to escape. It stumbled into the corpse of a massive rock troll. Farther down the hall, covering in darkness, the thunder of the shaelmaar echoed and rumbled the walls. Geralt finished off the last endrega with a quick strike, then sprinted toward the shadows.

By the time he got there, the thunder had ceased and the shaelmaar lay uncurled, dying on the floor with Regis standing over it. Thick dark blood seeped from gashes in its underbelly. Huge dents and furrows in the concrete showed where it had rolled. The bars of the caged cells around them were bent and shattered. The cells themselves showed traces of their former inhabitants—fur and feathers and bones. A dead cyclops filled one and a starved, scarred forktail cowered in the corner of another.

“They were pitting monsters against people…and against each other?” Geralt said, still breathing hard. “Guess you have to get your kicks somewhere.”

“A dangerous operation for dangerous men seeking violent thrills,” Regis said. “It seems Junior or his compatriots sought to stop us by releasing the beasts. How they intended to deal with them later, I cannot fathom.”

“Let’s find him and ask,” Geralt murmured.

In the next corridor, they met a dozen Flaming Rose knights, all armed with automatic weapons. Geralt moved behind Regis and let him take the lead again, as gunfire thundered through the narrow space. Quen shielded him long enough to take out a few of the knights as they concentrated their fire on the terrifyingly fast vampire. Regis didn’t even pause, flashing from one to another, neatly slicing their arms and legs to bring them down. Geralt went after made sure they stayed down.

When they were all on the ground, screaming and praying and bleeding, Regis calmly destroyed their weapons. His body was riddled with bullet wounds, but it didn’t seem to slow him at all.

“Which of you set the fire at the auto shop?” he asked them. “I will spare any who can tell me the arsonists.”

The knights were a bleeding, babbling mess. They accused each other and denied wrong-doing. A few couldn’t speak at all, weeping helplessly or completely passed out. Geralt watched them with disgust. They were a bunch of mindless fanatics who only knew how to follow orders. Underneath all their professed convictions, they were spineless.

“Leave them,” Geralt said. “We need the ringleader.”

They tracked Junior to a room above the fighting ring. Locks, steel bars, and bodyguards couldn’t stop Regis. When he and Geralt made it through the final set of doors into a room heavy with the scent of blood, a hail of bullets greeted them. Geralt crouched and put up his Quen shield. Regis smoked into a blur of darkness, streaking across the space and ending the gunfire in seconds.

When Regis emerged from the second room, dragging a man with him, rivulets of red were running down the vampire’s body. By the time he reached Geralt and dropped Junior at his feet, bullets had started popping out of Regis’ wounds. They pattered to the floor as his flesh and skin healed over the holes they’d left behind.

Geralt stood and stared, chest heaving. The man on the floor made a frantic, broken sound.

“You thought I wouldn’t return for you?” Regis said to Junior, sharp and cool. “Did you really imagine all of this would shield you from retaliation?” He nudged Junior with his foot, turning his head up with the tip of his bloody black shoe. “Monsters always imagine they are immune to creatures like themselves, but I can assure you, there is always a more terrifying entity beyond your comprehension.” His mouth opened in a hideous grin, showing the sheer points of his fangs.

“Regis,” Geralt said, feeling himself grow cold with fear.

“Geralt,” Regis replied, not looking at him. “It appears our friend here has some rather grisly hobbies. I would not recommend looking into the bedroom or bath.”

Geralt’s eyes went to the open door of the bathroom. Through the overall scent of blood, the stink of death hung there. “One of his girls?” he asked quietly.

“Most likely a trafficking victim,” Regis said. “In her mid-teens, at the most. There’s another pinned to the wall in the bedroom. He took his time with them.”

“It wasn’t me!” Junior protested, voice rising to a wail.

Geralt felt his gorge rise. He blinked hard at Junior, curled into a miserable ball on the floor. “The thing I regret most is not killing you before,” he said roughly.

“I have so much money,” Junior gasped. “I can show you where it is.”

“You can show us who set those fires,” Regis said coolly.

“Which fires?” Junior’s frantic eyes darted between them. “Oh…some of the knights, I guess. They’re real firebugs, those assholes. You’ve probably already killed them if you took out the crew down there. I didn’t have anything to do with it, I swear.”

“You didn’t do anything, did you?” Geralt hissed. Under the reek of blood and old bleach and stale sweat, the faint scent of a floral perfume was a knife in his temple. Junior stank of it all.

“That’s right,” Junior panted. “Those girls…anyone coulda done it.”

Geralt thrust his steel sword into Junior’s belly, heard his scream of pain, and twisted it hard. Then Regis reached down with both hands and jerked Junior’s head, breaking his neck. Abruptly, the scream stopped.

Geralt’s hands shook. Anger blurred his vision. He jerked his sword free, dripped a trail of blood.

“Much as he deserved it, it isn’t prudent to take pleasure from inflicting pain,” Regis said quietly. “Once you start down that path…”

“Shut up, Regis,” Geralt said, voice strained. He looked again to the bathroom and ground his teeth. “What if it was Angoulême in there? Would you give him a quick death then?”

Regis paused. “I don’t know. I hope I wouldn’t take joy in any person’s suffering in order to soothe my own torment, but the drive for revenge often leaves rational thought behind.”

In a jerky movement, Geralt swiped his sword clean on Junior’s pant leg and sheathed it on his back. “Let’s go. Cops can deal with this later.”

Regis nodded and trailed after him.

Following the smell of fresh air, they found a stairway that led up to a trapdoor. It opened into the closet of an empty suite, white minimalist design with a kitchen, bed, and bath. A fake fireplace was placed in one wall.

“Where the hell are we?” Geralt murmured.

“This appears to be a retail space in the Vine district,” Regis said, peering out a small window. “There’s a large gym next door. Possibly this business is a front for Junior’s illegal revenue. It makes sense that he’d have a legitimate living space to hide the seedier activities going on below.”

Geralt took one look at the shelves of liquor lining the wall and grabbed a bottle of high-end whisky.

“Really?” Regis murmured, giving him a bemused smile.

“Yeah, really.” Geralt opened it with a hard twist and poured a heavy glug down his throat.

Regis sighed and paced around the space. “There’s a shower in here. We ought to wash up. I’m sure you wouldn’t like Roach covered in blood, and it might make for an awkward conversation if we happen to meet anyone.”

Geralt took another long drink from the bottle and swallowed the warm burn. “The seat covers are washable.” He glanced down at the gore and monster guts streaking his body. “Well, a quick rinse wouldn’t hurt.”

The hiss of the showerhead, made his imagination perk up immediately. He sidled over to the bathroom door and casually peeked inside. Regis stood, fully clothed under the spray, reddish water running from his clothes, plastering them to his body. The fabric was ragged with bullet holes. He scrubbed at his long fingernails. At Geralt’s gaze, he looked up and smiled knowingly, showing the edges of his fangs.

Huh, Geralt thought stupidly, a bizarre wave of heat rolling through him. His skin prickled in an unfamiliar way—strange little sparks scattering up his spine.

“Come here,” Regis said, stepping out of the spray. “I want to look at that wound on your head.”

Geralt walked to him, like a lamb to the slaughter, caught between fear and need. Maybe this was how vampires hypnotized their victims, drawing them in despite the clear danger.

He stepped into the shower and let the water fall over his scalp, washing the clumping blood out of his hair. Regis moved in behind him, so Geralt couldn’t see him. A stab of panic went through him, but he steadied himself. Gentle hands in his hair, lifting it, combing it through long fingers, spreading into in the flow of warm water. Even the light scrape of a fingernail made Geralt tense, feeling at war with himself.

“Calm yourself,” Regis said. “It’s natural. Adrenaline and a sensation of fear can easily lead to a heightened sexual reaction. It’s a common physiological response.”

Geralt stiffened. “What?”

“I can smell your arousal,” Regis said, amusement in his voice. “Don’t distress yourself. I only intend to treat your wound. It appears to be no more than a shallow scrape, but we should disinfect it.”

Geralt turned, forcing Regis to let go of his hair. He glared at Regis’ calm expression. “You think I’m horny for you right now?” He could feel his own heartbeat thudding in his ears.

Water fell between them, splashing on his torso and down his legs.

“I may be mistaken,” Regis said. “You are slightly inebriated, which may affect your pheromones.”

Geralt cursed and reached back to turn off the shower. Regis’ face shone with water, placid and neutral as ever. Black eyes studied Geralt, opaque and impenetrable. Geralt wanted to say something, but his mouth wouldn’t move and his brain couldn’t think.

He lifted his hand and touched Regis’ jaw. The skin under his fingertips was cool and smooth. A quick movement in Regis’ throat was the only sign that it affected him. Geralt brushed his thumb over Regis’ wet lips and parted them. He traced a line over his teeth to the tip of one fang. It pressed into his skin like the point of a blade.

Then, then Regis’ eyes went hot and perilous. He tilted his head and dragged his fang over the pad of Geralt’s thumb, not breaking the skin, but sending a sharp prick of warning.

“Fuck,” Geralt breathed. He felt the jolt of desire from his nipples to his balls. He gripped Regis’ jaw harder, brought his face in close. Their mouths were inches apart. “This is a really incredibly bad idea.”

Regis laughed darkly. “I’ve been telling myself that since the day I met you.”

Chapter Text

Geralt wasn’t quite sure how it happened, but he was backed up against the wall of the shower, kissing Regis. Or more accurately, Regis was attacking Geralt’s mouth, pinning him to the wall with both hands. He was strong as a golem, and the force he used to kiss Geralt sent hot and cold shivers through Geralt’s nerves. Regis pushed a leg between Geralt’s and Geralt found himself rocking his pelvis to rub against Regis’ hip.

Holy shit. He’d never had sex with anyone able to physically overpower him…and apparently it was a huge turn on that he’d never known about. He was hard as goddamn granite and his whole body was vibrating with a potent mixture of apprehension and need.

Regis’ mouth dragged off and along his cheek. “Finally,” Regis hissed, hot air on his jaw. His fingernails scraped Geralt’s wrists. “Do you remember when you first asked to kiss me?”

Geralt drew in a deep breath. He was light-headed and half crazy. His hips pressed into Regis’. “I was high.” He felt high now, and just as dumb as he’d been then. The pressure of their bodies against each other made thick, syrupy pleasure seep through him.

“I wanted to climb into your lap and kiss you until we both passed out.” Regis chuckled a little. He released his grip and his nails scraped a line down Geralt’s forearms. “But there were my fangs to consider, of course. And I told myself it was just the intoxicant talking, not you. Maybe in your hallucinatory state, you thought I was Yen.” He hands trailed down over Geralt’s vest, tracing the flattened bullets embedded in it. “But you weren’t thinking of her then, were you?”

“No,” Geralt breathed, turning his head to catch Regis’ mouth again. He licked over Regis’ lips and then his teeth, feeling the scrape of his fangs. It sent another wave of electric shivers through him.

Regis made a soft snarling sound. His hands slid down between them, nimble fingers working at Geralt’s trousers. His touch made Geralt gasp, even through the thick fabric.

And then his fly was open and Regis’ hand was cool and smooth against him. The sensation clouded Geralt’s vision. He found himself unable to do anything except moan helplessly into Regis’ mouth as the vampire moved his hand with confidence and speed. Geralt’s hips bucked hard into his grip. His thighs strained. Regis pumped him steadily, faster and faster, hand slick with the water dripping off both of them.

Regis’ teeth scraped over Geralt’s bottom lip, a jagged, stinging pain and Geralt cried out. He came with a kind of violence that left him shaky and dazed, shuddering against the wall. Regis’ body held him upright. Regis sucked in Geralt’s lip again, soothing it with his tongue. No taste of blood, but the skin was sore.

Deliberately, Regis brought his hand up from Geralt’s pants and licked his palm slowly clean, eyes locked on Geralt’s. He made a purring rumble in his throat and kissed Geralt again, slowly this time. He tasted of salt and power. Then he pulled his head away and studied Geralt carefully.

Geralt could only stare back into those black eyes with stunned confusion mingled with bone-deep satisfaction. What just happened? Was Regis trying to make a point? Did this mean they were fucking again, despite agreeing not to?

“You, uh, need a hand?” he asked awkwardly.

“No,” Regis said, calm face back in place. “We should rinse off and leave as soon as possible. Anyone could come.”

So, he already regretted it. Geralt should too, but, damn… His brain was still overloaded on endorphins. It was hard to summon guilt or shame. He turned on the water and rinsed off on autopilot, still tingling with the aftermath.

The suite appeared to be part of a small complex hidden in the larger industrial building. Perhaps Junior used it to meet contacts while the hidden rooms beneath were his killing lair. A side door brought them out into dark parking lot. From there it was a twenty-minute walk to find the car. They were silent, moving swiftly in cold, wet clothes, as the first rays of light glowed gray-white on the edge of the horizon.

Geralt ran over all the possible conversations in his head. We need to talk about this, he’d say. We should figure out what’s going to happen with us. But Regis was so steadfastly not looking at him and that chilled him even more than the night wind sweeping through his soaked clothing.

Instead, Geralt pulled out his phone and called Cahir. “It’s done,” he said.

“Thank you.” Cahir sounded completely drained.

“You’ll want to send your guys in to this place It’s a gym in the Vine. There’s a suite with a hidden staircase under the floor in the hallway closet. There are some bodies of girls he killed in the room below. And in the halls are monster corpses. And lots of injured dudes we cut up.”

Cahir gave a long sigh. “I’ll take care of it.”

“How are they?”

“Fine.” Cahir said roughly. “We got sent out of the room. I’m back in the waiting area. Dandelion booked me a hotel, but I can’t think about sleeping right now.”

“Do it,” Geralt commanded. “The bad guys are gone. Milva and Eith are recovering. All you can do is rest and save up your energy for them.”

“Yeah,” Cahir said, sounding unconvinced. “Dandelion wants us to look at that house in the morning, but I have to work. He said he’d pick us up at eight. Can you make it?

“Sure,” Geralt said, watching the edge of the sun nudge at the horizon. “Not like I’ll be staffing the auto shop today.”

“I’m sorry, Geralt,” Cahir said softly. “A lot is going to change from now on.”

“I’ll survive,” Geralt said. “I always have.”

He ended the call as they approached Roach.

Regis hesitated. “Will you be staying at the shop with us?”

“My stuff is there,” Geralt said cautiously. “But Dandelion said he’d pay for a hotel room. Might be better. Anyway, he’s picking me and Angoulême up in a couple of hours to look at the new place, so I have to head to the shop anyway. Should probably dry off and change clothes.”

“Indeed.” Regis stood there, looking uncertainly at Roach.

“You don’t have to ride back with me if you don’t want to,” Geralt said, feeling that rough ache in his chest again. “I know it’s faster for you to go on your own.”

“Yes.” Regis seemed to struggle even to get that word out. He stood there, unmoving, looking somewhere past Geralt. Finally, he said, “I must apologize for disregarding your wishes regarding physical contact between us. Something came over me in there. I promise you it won’t happen again.”

“I’m the one that kissed you,” Geralt said, swallowing. “I wasn’t exactly protesting.”

“Regardless, I should have controlled myself,” Regis said. “Of the two of us, I have the most power, and I did not use it in a responsible manner.”

“It’s okay,” Geralt said awkwardly. He knew Regis was being the smart one, shutting things down before they got fucked up again. But Geralt also knew in his bones that it was too late. He’d tried to set boundaries upfront, and look how quickly they had both jumped right over those walls. Now that he’d tasted Regis, it would be near impossible to pretend they were just platonic friends.

“I’ll see you later at the shop, then,” Regis said firmly. He dissolved into darkness and streaked away.

The first glimpses of Corvo Bianco, the exclusive vineyard estate emerged as Dandelion’s car rolled over the winding hills. Gray roofs and the glint of greenhouse showed through the gnarled orchard. Dandelion beamed as though he’d personally built it all for them.

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “What a dump.”

Angoulême snickered. “It comes with bonus rats and ghosts.”

“It could use a little work,” Dandelion admitted. “But that’s why we’re here! A little polish and paint and it will be your own personal mansion.”

Dandelion’s driver parked the car in the wide dirt courtyard and Geralt, Dandelion, and Angoulême climbed out. Down the hillside, rows of brown vines twined over trellises, bare for the winter. Geralt didn’t know much about vineyards but even he could tell that the vines were overgrown and unhealthy. The garden had turned into a rambling mess of shaggy plants dried out and straggling into each other. The greenhouse was streaked with dirt and marred with broken panels.

But there was a sweet little stream flowing by, crossed by a rickety bridge. Geralt could imagine Eithne playing there, tossing seed pods and sticks into the burbling water. He could imagine Regis tending the garden—all the space he could want to grow his herbs. It was stupid, of course. Why would Regis be there? He had his shop in the city. He had no reason to stay here.

The house had been grand once. It was built of pale stone and wood bleached blond by the sun, white-washed and rustic in style. In its time, it must have been luxurious. Now the tiles were falling off the roof, the door hung crooked on its hinges and the gutters were sagging.

Inside, they found an entry hall, dining room, kitchen, and four bedrooms. Enough for Geralt, Milva and Cahir, and Eithne, plus a guestroom. There was no furniture, no appliances, and a buttload of repairs needed. Geralt felt his hopes sinking.

Angoulême poked at a strip of peeling wallpaper. “Not as bad as some of the shitholes I’ve stayed in.” She grinned at Dandelion. “What we really need is a song to start a magical fix-up montage.”

Dandelion nodded, smiling broadly. “And so you shall have one!”

Thankfully, an arrival interrupted him before he could start any musical numbers. Geralt heard the sound of tires, an engine turning off. He tromped back through the doorway with the others following.

A bald man with wide glasses was walking across the courtyard. He wore a business-casual blazer with expensive slacks. “Greetings. Mr. Dandelion. How pleasant to see you again.”

“B.B!” Dandelion exclaimed happily. “Let me introduce you. Geralt, Angoulême, this is the ineffable Barnabas Basil, premier contractor, designer, and general genius. His team refurbished the governor’s lake house last fall. It’s positively exquisite.”

“You’re too kind, Mr. Dandelion,” the bespectacled man murmured. “It’s a pleasure to work with people who appreciate vision.”

“Nice to meet you,” Geralt said. “But we really don’t have the money for the kind of work this place needs right now. It’s too bad. It has a lot of potential.”

“Never mind all that,” Dandelion said with a wave of his free hand. “I will handle the expenses.”

“Dandelion,” Geralt said with exasperation.

“Come on,” Angoulême said, poking Geralt in the side. “Let your sugar daddy take care of it. It’s not like he needs another diamond-studded watch.”

“We’re talking about tens of thousands of crowns here,” Geralt said tensely. “Maybe more.”

“It depends on how extensively you’d like to develop the property,” Barnabas Basil said. “But I can assure you, it is a sound investment.”

“And you’ll be the star of my next album,” Dandelion told Geralt. “Consider this your cut of the proceeds.”

Geralt frowned hard.

“Just think of how much Aunty and the kid will love it here,” Angoulême wheedled. “You can get a pony. You can grow your own tomatoes, and make shitty wine, and whatever old farts do.”

“I’ve already compiled estimates and prepared some preliminary sketches,” Basil said smoothly. “I think you may be intrigued by the possibilities here.”

Geralt sighed. “I’ll take a look.”

He sent photos and videos to Milva and spent half an hour texting with her back and forth while the others talked amongst themselves. Milva liked the look of the big workshop and the sloping fields would be a good place to set up a shooting range. But they both worried about the money. With the auto shop in charred ruins, their steady source of income had dried up completely. The insurance money would keep them afloat for a few months at the most.

At least Geralt had no shortage of contracts. With the rising numbers of monsters appearing around Toussaint, he’d be busy for a while, hopefully collecting some hefty bounties. He was planning on investigating reports of a “lion-bird” circling the meat-packing district later in the day.

In the meantime, he needed a nap. He’d spent the past twenty-four hours leaping from one crisis to another, and the interlude with Regis was still scrambling his brain. He couldn’t think with exhaustion drowning him.

He rejoined the others where they had settled on the uneven deck overlooking the stream.

“Thanks for the information, B.B.,” he told the contractor. “We’ll consider it.”

Dandelion sputtered. “What’s there to consider? The longer you wait, the more time you’ll be homeless!”

“He’s got a point,” Angoulême said. “At least let them get started on spiffing up the house.”

“Sure,” Geralt said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Make the place habitable, if you can. After that we’ll figure the rest out.”

Basil looked like he had a lot more to say, but he sensibly kept his mouth shut. “Indeed, sir. Please inform me at your earliest convenience when you have decided on the specifics we discussed.”

“Definitely.” Geralt shook his hand again went for the car where Dandelion’s driver waited.

“Speaking of places to live,” Angoulême said, sidling up to walk next to him. “Are you going to stay with me and Uncle or are you gonna make Dandelion spring for a hotel room because of your pride?”

“Regis never invited me to stay,” Geralt said, tamping down on that idea immediately. “It would be easier for everyone if I didn’t.”

“Oh, like he’s going to tell you no,” Angoulême scoffed. “You know it’s fine. Stop being a dick about this. Eventually you’re going to have to get over the fact that he kept secrets.”

“It’s not that,” Geralt said, opening the door to the car. “It would just be awkward, okay? I’m not sure where we stand right now and I don’t want to put us both in a weird place before we figure things out.”

Angoulême twisted her mouth, studying him. He tried to avoid her eyes, busying himself with putting on his seatbelt. When the driver started the engine, Dandelion finally got the hint and waved goodbye to B.B., walking toward the car.

Angoulême slid into the seat next to Geralt, eyes still trained on him. She clicked her seatbelt with a loud snap. “You guys fucked, huh?”

“Shit,” Geralt said. He passed a hand over his eyes. “I’m too tired for this right now.”

“He came back to the shop this morning all tense and weird.” She chewed on a fingernail. “I thought it was just from mowing down all those gangsters. Damn, Gramps. You still getting it at your age?”

“Sleep,” Geralt groaned, folding both arms over his face. “Now.”

Dandelion opened the passenger door and slid inside. “What is our next destination?”

“Somewhere with a bed,” Geralt said.

“Drop us off at the shop,” Angoulême ordered.

Geralt knew it was a bad idea, but he couldn’t tell them why. He sighed into his arms and by the time they were halfway down the hill, he was dead asleep.

Regis wasn’t at the shop when they arrived…or at least not visibly. Geralt collapsed on the guest cot, his old friend, and slept steadily for several hours. When he woke, the light was beginning to fade outside the narrow window. So much for his griffin hunt. He’d visit the girls at the hospital instead. If he left now, he might still make visitor hours.

Downstairs, he found Regis and Angoulême making dinner in the little kitchen. The scents of oregano and tomato sauce wrapped around them. He froze automatically, meeting Regis’ eyes, but the vampire just smiled and asked if he wanted white or red sauce on his pasta.

“Red,” Geralt said blankly. Then he remembered himself. “Uh, I’m actually heading out to see Milva and Eith. Save a plate for me?”

“We were just there,” Regis said. “I believe they are sleeping now. But you are welcome to check and see.”

“Never mind then,” Geralt said. He shuffled his feet for a moment, then took a seat on one of the stools.

“How were they?”

“Much improved,” Regis said, stirring the sauce.

Angoulême poked at the boiling noodles with a fork. “Doctor says they should be out in a couple days. But they can’t talk much for a while. Eithne has her oxygen mask off now. She’s drawing pictures again.” She gestured to a piece of paper stuck to the wall. It showed a figure in a gray blanket carrying a little girl out of a house on fire.

Geralt’s throat tightened at the memory. “Good,” he said in a scratchy voice.

Angoulême strained the noodles in a colander and set it next to the sink. She grabbed a plate and started dishing up. “Help yourself,” she told Geralt.

In comparison to past meals there, it was quiet and subdued. Regis kept his distance, eating at the end of the counter while Angoulême sat next to Geralt and shoveled her pasta into her mouth with a kind of determined vehemence.

Finally, she broke the silence, still chewing. “So…vampires eat human food?”

Regis stilled and set his fork on his plate. “Yes, though we don’t require as many calories to survive as humans do. To keep my energy high, I eat every day.”

“You don’t need blood?” Angoulême asked boldly.

Geralt felt the hard edges of his fork dig into his fingers.

“No,” Regis said levelly. “Blood is like alcohol for vampires. It is a powerful, enjoyable intoxicant, but has no nutritional value.”

“Wow,” Angoulême breathed. “So, you don’t drink it at all, these days?”

“I swore off blood three hundred years ago.” Regis’ back was as straight as a board. “As I told Geralt, I had a physical and psychological dependence on it that ran to excess. Only near disaster convinced me of the error of my self-destructive ways. Drunk on blood, I flew directly into the side of a building, like a bird into a window pane. The humans who found me did their best to kill me: holy water, stakes, garlic—even severed my head from my body and buried them in separate places. I don’t know how long I might have stayed there, barely conscious, only able to helplessly cycle through all my mistakes and all the lives I had ended.”

“What happened?” Angoulême demanded, eyes wide.

Regis looked down at the red and white tangle on his plate. “After a few years, Dettlaff found me and helped me regenerate. You might say he nursed me back to health. After that, we both made a pact to never drink blood. At first it was self-preservation. Although we are stronger and faster than humans, drinking their blood can make us vulnerable to attack. They are more numerous than we are. I became obsessed with observing the humans and learning to blend into their world. In time, I came to appreciate the resilience of their species and all the things they created in their short lives. Dettlaff thought I was foolish for studying human society and learning medicine. He felt humans were inherently dangerous—like a swarm of hornets that might attack as soon as they noticed an outsider. But he did develop an appreciation for those who showed kindness. He has a tender heart under his intimidating exterior.”

“So, you’ve been living among us all this time,” Angoulême said with a note of awe in her voice. “I always knew you were weird with no mirrors in the house and your pickiness about lighting. Never guessed you were a dracula, though. Pretty wild.”

“Geralt noticed a few things,” Regis said with a sad smile. “There are some aspects I can hide, but I cannot control the way light falls. My body reacts differently to the sunlight here. It doesn’t block light waves as thoroughly as most material on this planet. Geralt observed this.”

“I didn’t want to,” Geralt twisted the noodles on his plate. “A couple times I tried to tell myself it was just a trick of angles, but when we were walking back to the car that night at Orianna’s party side by side, there were lights in the trees and I was casting a long shadow, but yours just wasn’t there. I couldn’t ignore it, but I didn’t know what it meant, so I just kept my mouth shut. I’d never read about or heard of a creature that didn’t have a shadow.”

“It’s a little-known fact about my species,” Regis said. “Most people never realize it.”

“But if you live for so long, why aren’t there more vampires out there?” Angoulême asked. “Or are half the people vampires and I didn’t notice?”

“Only a small group of us made the journey here, including my ancestors. Like elves, we are only fertile in the early part of our lives. And even then, vampires are slow to reproduce. My parents have lived for over seven hundred years and I am their only child. It takes time and energy to raise a young one, and as strangers in a strange world, we do not always have the security or resources. There are some higher vampires who say we should die out. This world is for the humans and they will always fight us.”

“Wait…you’re from a different world?” Angoulême looked bug-eyed. “Like that spheres meeting thing you were talking about?”

“The Conjunction of the Spheres,” Regis said. “Monsters and many other non-human creatures were deposited here on the continent during that time. At first, we thought it was a feast—all the blood for the taking. But attitudes soon changed. Vampires split into factions of those who wanted to dominate the humans, those who wanted to hunt in secret, and those who felt feeding was immoral. Most of us fell into the second category.”

“No one could stop you,” Geralt said softly. “If you wanted to rule, who could stand in the way of powerful, practically immortal vampires?”

“Other vampires,” Regis said. “It is this precise system of alternate viewpoints that has kept the more ambitious individuals in check. However, the Unseen Elder could change all that. If he is taking the stage, none of us can stop him.”

“Why now?” Geralt demanded. “If he’s been in hiding for a thousand years, why set the apocalypse in gear now?”

“Dettlaff had a theory about that.” Regis’ voice faltered for a moment. “There is talk among the vampires of a gate that bridges this world with our previous world. Certain factions have tasked themselves with finding it.”

“A gate?” Angoulême frowned. “Ya’ll want to go back to the home planet?”

“We don’t belong here,” Regis said softly. “Even I, who have incorporated myself into human society more than any vampire I know of, must remain constantly vigilant. It’s the act of always wearing a mask that could slide off at any moment and reveal a monster. Any slip could be the end of me, and all my relationships.”

“Not with me,” Angoulême said firmly. “I don’t care who you are. And if you’re going away, I’m coming with you.”

Regis smiled. “Thank you for your loyalty. I have no intention of leaving this world. But I understand the sentiments of those who do.”

Geralt tried to steady his mind. “You’re talking like they’ll just open a door and leave. But the apocalypse happens first?”

Regis’ forehead creased with tension. “The amount of power required to open the gate wide enough will doubtless damage this sphere. And it will attract vampires and other monsters to the area, just as the Conjunction did so long ago. I fear the human casualties will be very high, if not devastatingly so.”

In the falling darkness, Geralt walked up the hill to the cemetery and hoisted himself over the fence. He wasn’t tired and the thought of lying down on the cot just outside Regis’ room made his nerves prickle with suppressed energy.

The night was cold and it sharpened his senses, drawing in the crisp air and the scents of decaying flowers and damp piles of burnt incense. He circled the mausoleum, boots crunching on dried leaves. The stone was streaked with brown and green algae and curly moss crowned its dome. Aside from the occasional rustle of the wind in fallen leaves or the drip of water off stone, the place was silent.

Then, a brush of wings. Geralt froze and looked up. In the gnarled tree, a raven perched, a single shining eye fixed on him. It tilted its head and cawed out a note of warning, jabbing its beak toward him. Without thinking, Geralt dove and rolled to the side, hand going for his silver.

A swoosh of movement and hissing snarl passed near him. He drew his blade and stayed, crouched, pupils wide. The blur of motion solidified into a humanoid in a blue suit and silver tie. He had blond hair and a mouth stretched to show long fangs in a sneer.

“Witcher, you’ll die—” the vampire started to say.

Geralt formed Igni and blasted it with a rush of fire. The scream it gave was gratifying. He hacked at it with his silver until it finally blurred out of sight. Then he waited for it to emerge again, slowly turning to prepare for the next attack.

It came for his back, but he’d been expecting that, and managed to twist away from the first swipe of long claws. The second blow scraped over his shoulder, shredding his jacket. He saw then that it had transformed into a grotesque bat-creature with knobby limbs and a narrow mouth full of slender white teeth. The blue suit hung in shreds from its furred gray body.

As the claws nipped his skin, he thrust his silver into the vampire’s torso in a deep cut. Blood gushed over the blue fabric, turning it a glistening, dark purple, matting the gray fur. The vampire gave a wet moan and stumbled back, off his blade. Geralt raised his bloody sword with both hands and swung it in a hard arc, cutting through the creature’s neck. His blade stopped on bone so he pulled it back and hacked again. The bat head fell off the body and rolled into the grass.

Geralt lowered his sword, breathing hard. Dead or just waiting to regenerate? He looked around. The raven was gone.

And like he was summoned, Regis appeared, standing by the obelisk grave marker. Geralt suppressed the urge to jump back, but his muscles still twitched reflexively.

He tried to keep his voice level. “You missed the excitement.”

“I came as soon as I could.” Regis walked over to the fallen vampire, knelt and examined it. “Katakan. He won’t be regenerating.”

“Friend of yours?” Geralt asked dryly.

“We are not acquainted,” Regis said. “But I can see by the symbol on his ring that he is affiliated with the Gharasham clan of higher vampires.” He pointed to a white gold band encircling the joint of one bony claw. “Many lesser vampires serve us. Dettlaff was particularly friendly with group of bruxae, for example. They often attempted to obtain his favor. When a higher vampire is your protector, others won’t trouble you.”

“They certainly don’t mind troubling me,” Geralt said tartly. “Aren’t you my unofficial guardian or something?”

“I am not particularly well-liked by the other clans,” Regis said. “They don’t appreciate how much I’ve integrated with humans. And after I killed the alps who attacked you at The Silver, I became fair game. Dettlaff was the only one who would stand for me.”

“So that’s why you decided to go to Nazair,” Geralt said, realization coming over him. “You really threw me for a loop there. If only you’d told me.” He touched his hand to his chest where the bronze disc was strung with his amulet.

“You kept it,” Regis said quietly. “I didn’t think you would.”

“Did you keep Dettlaff’s moth pin?” Geralt asked roughly. “The one he tossed back at you?”

Regis looked at him, then nodded slightly, face impassive. “I gave it to him long ago.” He moved closer to Geralt. “Let me see your shoulder.”

Geralt glared at the rip in his jacket and the spray of blood streaking across his chest. “It would be a lot easier if we could just stake them and turn them to dust.”

“Many things would be easier if superstitions were true,” Regis said. “Here, it’s a shallow cut. Come back inside and I’ll clean and bandage it.”

As they walked down the hillside in the cool silence of the night. Geralt had the weird urge to grab Regis’ hand. But that would be idiotic. So he just strode beside him, thinking Regis could just smoke his way back into the shop, but he’d chosen to take his time to walk with Geralt.

“I lied,” Regis said as they reached the fence. “The device I gave you doesn’t enhance your amulet. It alerts me when your heartrate, cortisol, and blood pressure are high, indicating that you are in danger or pain. That’s why I came so quickly when Philippa cursed you. My ravens told me where you were.”

“Huh,” Geralt said, digesting the information. “Kind of invasive, but since it saved my bacon, I guess I can’t complain.” He grimaced. “Does it tell you when my heartrate is high because of…pleasure?”

Regis chuckled. “I haven’t tested that theory yet. But I promise not to disturb you if that is the case. You could always remove it before intercourse or masturbation if you are concerned about your privacy.”

And wasn’t that a tripwire for Geralt to navigate. How could he respond? I only want to have intercourse with you right now, so it’s all good. They both knew this was going nowhere, and Geralt himself had said it would be better if they didn’t get involved. Anyway, he was still bound to Yennefer and he’d probably get diced up into tiny pieces by the Unseen Elder pretty soon…so nothing could come of it. If a witcher messing around with a five-hundred-year-old vampire wasn’t crazy enough, he had to deal with his lost memories, wading through endless layers of deception, and preparing for the coming apocalypse. Better to keep things simple.

Still…

He curled his fingers into fists to keep from reaching out and taking Regis’ hand, just to feel some kind of contact. The gate of the cemetery loomed ahead of them. Geralt stifled a laugh at the thought of standing there at the entrance of a cemetery, holding hands with a handsome vampire and gazing into his eyes, like the heroine of a gothic romance. Well, there was no point in getting sappy about it. They were friends again, and that was enough.

When they got back to the shop, still walking in silence, Regis opened the door and let them into the dark interior. He flicked on a light, despite the fact that they both had keen night vision.

“Sit,” Regis said shortly, not looking at Geralt. Then he turned to the stairs. “Angoulême!”

A shuffling sound from above. “What?” she squawked. “I’m in the middle of a game!”

“Get my medical kit, please,” Regis said. “Geralt is injured.”

Angoulême groaned. A minute later she came down the stairs scowling. “How bad is it?”

“Just a shallow cut,” Geralt said, feeling as confused as she looked. Regis had never asked her to help with first aid before.

“Well, where’s the kit?” she said, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t even know where the heck you keep it.”

“On the top shelf of the cabinet in the bathroom.” Regis turned to Geralt. “Please remove your jacket carefully if you want to save it. Otherwise I can cut it off.”

As Geralt worked his way carefully out of the torn jacket, Angoulême disappeared and returned with the bag, dropping it on the counter. “Is that all you wanted?”

“Yes,” Regis said, looking at Geralt’s shoulder. “There’s a roll of gauze in the side. Cut a piece about twenty centimeters long. I’ll get the ointment.”

He went for the shelves while Angoulême dug out the roll of gauze and squinted at it.

“Getting some medical training?” Geralt suggested.

Angoulême shot him an incredulous look. “Yeah, that’s exactly what’s happening, Gramps. Out of nowhere, Uncle suddenly decided I needed to learn about dressing wounds. C’mon, don’t be this dumb.” She swore softly, unrolling a long strip. “How the fuck long is twenty centimeters anyway?”

Regis returned before Geralt could reply. “I’ll cut it,” he told her reassuringly. “Please clean the wound with this cloth.”

Geralt gritted his teeth at the rough pressure of the damp cloth in Angoulême’s hand.

“Patrolling the graveyard without me?” she asked. “What’d you tangle with this time?”

“Katakan,” he said. “A lesser vampire. Looks like an anorexic bat-person.”

Regis’ fingers spreading the ointment were gentler. “Geralt beheaded it before I could get there. His abilities are remarkable.”

“Dang, sorry I missed it.” Angoulême sighed. “One of these days I’m gonna see a beheading.”

“Hopefully not one of us,” Regis murmured. He covered the wound with gauze and then adhered the edges to Geralt’s skin. “Try not to disturb the dressing. It should heal in a day or two.”

Geralt flexed his arm. It barely even hurt anymore. The soothing action of the ointment removed most of the pain. “Thanks.”

“And thank you for your assistance,” Regis said, looking at Angoulême. “Now I believe it’s time we all retired for the night. Take care.”

“Kay,” Angoulême said without protest. “Night, dudes.”

As she walked up the stairs with Regis following behind, Geralt remained on the stool, silently confounded. Something was going on, but he wasn’t picking it up. Regis just didn’t order Angoulême around in a short, clipped tone then march off to bed at nine o’clock. The Regis he knew would pour a shot of mandrake cordial, lean on the bar, and chat all night about the psychological roots of mythology or the best methods for distillation. What the hell was going on?

When Geralt finally got upstairs to his cot, he lay there for an hour, looking at Regis’ bedroom door. As soon as Angoulême started to snore on the mattress in the far corner, Geralt got up and snuck to the door. He rapped his knuckles on it lightly and waited. No response.

“Regis,” he hissed.

Silence from the other room. He stood there for several minutes, breathing, (exerting pheromones?), but nothing happened. Regis was ignoring him or he wasn’t there. Either way, the distance filled Geralt, sharp and grating.

On the third floor of the embassy, Yennefer set down her phone and looked at the ceiling. The specks of popcorn plaster made a frosty ocean. It seemed to roll and shift under her gaze. Her eyes felt gritty and shriveled. The cloud of exhaustion in her head never seemed to leave, no matter how many spells she cast to banish it.

For a moment, it seemed the whole room vibrated—a passing truck, a tiny earthquake, or her own weariness shaking her senses. Then it was over and everything was still again.

She steadied herself and turned her gaze back to the huge map covering the wall—a gray-blue grid of Toussaint. Of course, there was no telling whether Sigi had actually kept his prize here, but he liked to have his valuables close, she knew. There were few people Sigi Reuven, hotel magnate and former spymaster, actually trusted. When he’d been Sigismund Dijkstra of the Redanian Secret Service, he had a reputation for giving his subordinates different information to see what leaked out. Philippa had called him the "Director of the Rat Circus," but even she secretly feared his reach, Yennefer suspected.

There was no way he’d moved Ciri outside of his territory, she was sure of it. But why couldn’t find anything? Ciri’s bursts of magic were sporadic and usually too brief to track, but they happened. Now for a week there’d been nothing. Not even a spark of Ciri’s unique, otherworldly glow. Surely, they couldn’t keep her in dimeritium cuffs this long. It’d sap her health.

Yennefer closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Don’t think about that.

The knock on her door was perfunctorily brief before it swung open and one of Emhyr’s bodyguards came prowling in. He did a quick sweep of the room without even speaking to her. Then Emhyr entered, accompanied by a second guard. He wore a dove gray shirt with black suit pants. He looked as though he’d aged ten years in the span of months, lines deepening in his forehead and around his eyes. He motioned to the guards who took up positions by the door.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he said in that low deadly voice. The first time she had heard it, the power in it had excited her. But after a year of living on the edge of silky threats, she had become immune to the thrill.

“I didn’t have anything new to report,” she responded wearily. “I’m sorry I hung up on you.” She wasn’t. “I stayed up all night again scrying and casting for any clue. Nothing.”

His stony expression didn’t change. She wanted to throw something at him just to get a reaction. He’s just worried about his daughter, she told herself for the hundredth time. Just like I am.

She wet her lips. “Can I assume your men haven’t turned up any leads either?”

“We’ve searched every hotel and property that he owns. We’re running low on potential locations. My people are working. But they don’t have magic. Perhaps you could accompany a team and use your skills on the ground.”

She stiffened at the thought of abandoning her workspace, so carefully constructed over the past year. “If they had only moved faster at the mall, she never would have been taken! They watched Sigi drive off with her and did nothing.”

“There was a gun battle going on at the moment,” Emhyr said coolly, as he had before. “But you are not incorrect about their failure. As I told you, those who did not act with appropriate speed and efficiency have been punished.”

“And how about those who torched Aretuza?” she demanded. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out about it?”

“It was my order,” he said. “We needed to send a message to the Lodge of Sorceresses.”

“By destroying a school?”

“Yes. It was empty at the time. We ensured that.” His steely gaze didn’t change. She found herself roiling with internal fury under it. “Don’t concern yourself. There will be no consequences. From here on out, we will have the aid of local law enforcement. We can get records and security footage from any camera in Toussaint. We will find Sigi and then we will find Cirilla.”

“Nothing like the power of the police state,” she said tersely. “I take it your cousin kindly offered up all local assistance?”

“The governor knows Toussaint’s role for Nilfgaard. She will provide anything I ask.” He studied Yennefer for a long moment. “Soon we will contact the witcher again. My spies tell me he has lost his main revenue stream. Perhaps he will be a bit more receptive to my offer now.”

“And if he isn’t?” Yennefer asked. “Philippa put him through hell.”

Emhyr inclined his head slightly. “He will find my hell more convincing.”

“I won’t allow you to hurt him,” she said, trying to match the danger in his voice.

“No, you will help him,” Emhyr said. “You will restore his memory. We’re playing the endgame now. No more catering to the will of the Lodge. The Geralt who raised his child of destiny would never abandon her.”

“He hasn’t—” she started to say, then stopped. “It’s going to put a huge target on his back.”

“The Lodge has too much trouble right now to worry about a rogue witcher,” Emhyr declared. “Their focus will be on hitting Dykstra, just as ours is. Geralt will find a way to get to Cirilla. He is unstoppable when properly motivated. Your job is simply to reveal the motivation. Knowing your loved one is endangered burns agony in your bones. This is the hell he must endure.”

Chapter Text

By the time Milva and Eithné were discharged from the hospital and able to get around again, B.B’s team had transformed Corvo Bianco with incredible efficiency. Geralt almost believed Angoulême’s quip about the magical montage song. The place looked miles better with new paint, flooring, cabinets, and appliances. They’d kept the weathered, antique look to the house but now it looked like a something that belonged on the National Register of Historic Places and not the list of condemned buildings to be bulldozed.

On a bright, cold morning, Geralt, Milva, Eithné and Dandelion toured their new home with growing excitement. Milva’s voice still rasped hoarsely and Eithné could only speak in a whisper, but the happiness in their glowing faces warmed Geralt. Eithné immediately claimed the upstairs bedroom with a view of the hills and stream. While she circled around it with Dandelion, plotting out the décor, Milva and Geralt strolled down the hall. Milva picked the master bedroom for herself and Cahir. She beamed as she surveyed the huge closet.

“I know you’re picturing putting in a gun safe,” Geralt said. “But you haven’t even seen the workshop yet. It’s the ideal place for our weapons. And we can put in a shooting range up the hill.”

She patted him hard on the back. “You really know how to please a girl,” she said, grinning.

Geralt looked out the window to the rambling vineyard. “I know it’s not the little gray house with the auto shop, and starting over new after losing everything is gonna be rough. But maybe it will be home eventually.”

“It is home,” she said. “But Geralt…” She lowered her head and coughed, covering her mouth. When she could speak again, her voice had roughened even more. “What are we gonna do? The insurance money is not gonna be enough to build a new business. Might be able to buy a run-down garage on the bad side of town, but there’s all the equipment to replace too. I don’t have enough savings.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Geralt said firmly. “We’ll figure something out. For now, we have a roof over our heads and friends to help out. Cahir’s cop salary has got to be pretty good. We’ll charge him a crazy high rent.”

Milva laughed and coughed again. “And Eithné can quit school and get a job,” she said as her daughter wandered into the room.

“Hey,” Eithné hissed. “I heard that.”

Dandelion followed her in. “Well, what do you all think? The renovation was not entirely as spectacular as I had envisioned, but the building has maintained its rustic charm. We can always add flourishes and accents in the future.”

“Sure,” Geralt said slowly, not wanting to think about what Dandelion’s ideal vision for interior design might look like.

They all meandered outside to the grounds, still gray and brown from the dry winter winds. The gardens and greenhouse were still a mess, but that could be dealt with in time. Geralt made a note to fix up the little bridge over the stream, or get B.B’s guys to do it. The workshop, sheds, and garage would also need some restoration.

As Milva and Eithné strolled ahead to the vineyard, Geralt slowed his pace to chat with Dandelion.

“So, how are things going with Syanna? No issues?”

“Nothing new. She rarely makes an appearance, much to my beloved’s dismay,” Dandelion said. “Of course, she and her beau are still wanted by law enforcement.”

“Yeah, I get the feeling Cahir’s pretty sore about letting murderers go free,” Geralt said. “But he knows there’s not much we can do about it as long as Dettlaff and the governor are backing her up. I say, let sleeping dogs lie.” He glanced at Dandelion’s shoulder, now free of bandages and slings. “If she’d killed you, it’d be another thing, though.”

“Then let us all be grateful that she didn’t,” Dandelion murmured. “Truly, I don’t believe she ever aimed to mortally wound me. But I try not to think about it extensively.”

“I wonder if Dettlaff’s ever going to forgive Regis for protecting me,” Geralt said quietly. “Now that Syanna’s called off the hunt, you’d think he’d lost at least half his reason for hating us.

“But you are still a witcher, a slayer of vampires,” Dandelion pointed out. “Quite frankly, I’m amazed that Regis did choose to befriend you, knowing your profession. It doesn’t make logical sense.”

“It definitely wasn’t the smartest decision,” Geralt said darkly. “And it cost him his oldest friend. I can’t help wondering why he picked me. We met less than a year ago, but he fought Dettlaff for me.”

“Time has no bearing on true bonds,” Dandelion observed. “I only met my darling weasel this past spring, and now I would gladly die for her.”

Geralt grimaced. “She has bodyguards for that. Let them take the first hits, at least.”

After a trip to the department store for basic necessities, they started setting up house. Since just about everything was lost in the fire, they had to start over new. The rooms had an empty, spare look, but blank spaces gradually began to fill. Dandelion brought over some of Anna Henrietta’s furniture that had been sitting in storage. It was a little ornate, but well-made. Milva and Angoulême scoured thrift shops and garage sales. Thankfully Milva’s no-frills mentally balanced out Angoulême’s taste for the weird and they didn’t bring home any skeleton lamps or taxidermized animals. Cahir and Geralt helped move in the heavy stuff when Cahir had free time. The police department had a lot on their hands with the recent takedown of the drug cartel.

After the turmoil of the past weeks, Geralt was glad to return to a kind of stability, but he still felt off-center. He rarely saw Regis, just his ravens. And when Regis did make a brief appearance, he was quiet and barely met Geralt’s eyes for more than a second. It seemed like a gulf had opened between them that Geralt was powerless to bridge.

At the very least, he was able to stay busy with a variety of jobs. The griffin in the meat-packing district didn’t go down easily. He tracked it for ages, but couldn’t lure it in close enough for an attack. Finally, on Milva’s insistence that she had recovered, he brought her along the next day. She set up her sniper rifle and she downed it with a rapid series of shots. All Geralt had to do was rush in and finish it off.

Next, they took on the poison-spitting archespores that had popped up in the botanical gardens. Then they blew up a pack of rotfiends roaming around the dump. Each time, Vivienne drew up an official purchase order to pay them as independent contractors for the Animal Control Department. Sure, the growing number of monster sighting in the city concerned Geralt, but he couldn’t complain about the effect it had on his income.

In their downtime, they worked on fixing up Corvo Bianco. They borrowed some tools and bought some lumber and started replacing the creaky, cracked boards in the little bridge.

“Where’d you learn to get so good at building stuff?” Geralt asked, watching Milva measure and cut. “Your dad teach you?”

She shrugged. “This is nothing. Simple job.” After a minute of sawing noisily, the end of the board fell free. “My dad was good at destroying things. Not much good at building or fixing them.” She wiped away loose sawdust. “When he died, it was pretty much a huge relief for all of us. But his replacement wasn’t much better.”

Geralt wondered if he should let it go at that. No sense in making her dredge up painful memories. But the hard set of her jaw made him reluctant to let her stew in silence. “Is that when you joined the military?”

She snorted. “You jumped to that conclusion?”

“Am I wrong?”

She picked up another plank and laid it across the twin sawhorses. “No. Small village, no prospects. Two of my three brothers had already enlisted. I was transferred immediately to a special team. They needed women to investigate some disappearances in Brokilon Forest. With my marksmanship and outdoor survival experience, they chose me.”

“Women? Did this have something to do with dryads?”

“Well, we didn’t know that at the time, but they seemed to only kill men. I have my suspicions that they were picking off loggers and hunters who dared to ‘defile’ their forest. Seems like they left the hikers and backpackers alone. My team couldn’t find a single trace of the missing men or their attackers. But we did manage to stumble into a family of werewolves. Our bullets only slowed them down. They took out my teammates. I ran but one pulled me down. They’re fucking fast, you know.”

“I know,” Geralt said, shivering at the thought of Milva alone and downed in the forest. “How’d you escape?”

“The dryads have silver-tipped arrows specifically for werewolves. Lucky me, I’d only gotten ripped up by the claws, not the fangs, so I didn’t catch it.” She stretched out her measuring tape and made a mark. “They took out some werewolves, drove off the others, and saved my life. Then they interrogated me for hours.”

“You convinced them to let you go?”

She set her saw against the wood. “I asked to join them. A whole society of badass women seemed like the place for me. I think that’s why they didn’t erase my memory, like they threatened. But Queen Eithné, the leader of the dryads really saved me. She healed my wounds and she invited me to stay. I thought I’d found a second life.”

He nodded. “So, why’d you leave?”

“I couldn’t kill for them.” She smiled wryly and started sawing again. “Humans never were much good to me, and I hated having poachers in a national forest. But they didn’t deserve to die for that. And neither did the men cutting trees to build roads. They were just doing their job.”

“So, the dryads let you leave?”

“Queen Eithné understood my reasons. She asked me to return to the human world and try to protect the forest from that side. So, I did. I convinced my special forces commander that my team had been attacked by wild animals and I’d had to spend weeks recovering in a little hut with no way to contact them. Still can’t believe I got away with that story. But then when I started hanging out with Brokilon activists, I got in some real hot water.”

“You couldn’t get out of your commission?”

“Not without dishonorable discharge. Anyway, I found a group trying to stop development in Brokilon. They were pretty fiery. They used to meet at the community center and plot all kinds of demonstrations and legal actions. There was this one guy who really caught my interest. He was an artist, super passionate and crazy beautiful. Neither of us was interested in anything serious, and we didn’t have much in common, but…I don’t know. Maybe I was just young and dumb. Maybe I just needed to get laid.”

“You don’t have to explain anything to me,” Geralt said. “I know all about that.”

“Well, anyway, I got knocked up. I didn’t realize it for a few weeks.” Her shoulder jerked with the rapid movement of her arm. “Then, out of nowhere, a bomb went off at one of our rallies. Shot shrapnel everywhere. Killed three of the activists.” She rested the saw against the plank. “Still no suspects, even after seven years. But we had a lot of enemies.”

Geralt didn’t say anything. He stopped sanding the wood.

Milva tossed the sawn board into the pile with the others. “So, I wasn’t gonna have the baby, but after the bomb, I couldn’t think straight. I just didn’t know what to do. I kept putting it off, pushing the decision away. And then it was too late. And baby Eithné came.” She pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes and tucked it into the elastic around her ponytail. “I got my discharge from the military pretty easily after that.”

“Did you have anywhere to go?”

“Well, Eith and I stayed with my great uncle who owned the auto shop and I started working there in the office with her in a basinet. Then when his arthritis got bad, he watched her while I worked on the cars. He handed the place off to me when he retired and left for Kovir. That’s the whole story.”

Geralt took the saw from her. “Starting over with a new baby. That’s gotta be tough.”

“It was,” she said gruffly. “But I’m pretty tough.”

“I hadn’t noticed that about you,” Geralt said with a smile.

On the weekend they threw a little house-warming party for the gang. Regis and Angoulême took a taxi there and when they stepped out to meet Geralt, Milva, Cahir, and Eithné, nothing seemed amiss. Regis greeted everyone warmly and easily. If Geralt wished he’d gotten a little more eye contact or a real hug, well, that was just too bad.

They toured the house and grounds together, then ate a big lasagna dinner. Eithné was eager to tell everyone how she had mixed the salad herself. The reddened, heat-damaged skin on her face had peeled off, revealing a new pink layer beneath, and she looked and sounded almost the same as before.

Angoulême was uncharacteristically quiet, but sat back watching them all with a satisfied look. She sipped her glass of wine like she was a socialite, not a lanky girl in an orange miniskirt with striped tights.

“Is Dandelion coming?” she asked.

“Later,” Milva said. “He had another fundraiser to go to.”

Angoulême leaned back with an appraising look at Geralt. “You should show Uncle around the gardens. Get his opinion.”

Regis smiled, lips stretched tight. “I don’t think that is necessary. I’m hardly the expert. Geralt and Milva can handle a little gardening.”

“But they need your help,” Angoulême insisted. “Just walk around a little and point stuff out to Gramps. You guys both love herbs, right?”

Regis didn’t respond immediately. Milva and Cahir were looking between him and Angoulême, clearly trying to figure out what was going on.

“If he doesn’t want to…” Geralt started to say, feeling tense.

“No, he’s not avoiding you,” Angoulême said firmly. “Are you, Uncle?”

Regis’ expression didn’t change. “Certainly not. I’d be happy to take a look around. Would anyone else like to come? Eithné? Milva?”

“We’re all good here,” Angoulême said before they could answer. “We’re going to clean up the kitchen together.”

“I see,” Regis said. “Perhaps all six of us would be a crowd. Geralt, would you care to take a quick stroll around the gardens?”

“Sure,” Geralt said, swallowing hard.

When they walked out the door together, they didn’t say a word until they reached the edge of the raised beds.

“You’ll get excellent sunlight here,” Regis said. “Although it may be rather intense in the summer. If you can set up a drip irrigation system, it will save you time, energy, and reduce your water bill.”

“Okay,” Geralt murmured. “Which herbs do well in full sunlight?”

“Most all of them,” Regis said, walking quickly between the beds. “Bleeding heart prefers shade. Beggartick, blood moss, and duckweed need a wetter environment, as you know.”

“Yeah,” Geralt said uselessly.

They stopped at the edge of the garden and looked over the vineyard. The sinking sun glowed on the individual vines and lit a deep gold line along the horizon. “A fine piece of land,” Regis said quietly. “You all will be very happy here.”

“You haven’t seen the greenhouse,” Geralt said cautiously. “Um, if you want to.”

Regis nodded. “Show me there.”

It really was a mess. The mildewed and broken panes gave it all the look of an abandoned trash shed. But when they got closer, he saw that the support beams were good-quality metal, still straight and strong. The shelves inside had rusted, but still looked sturdy. He could wash and sand the worst of it off, then paint them. As they walked in, warmth surrounded them.

“Excellent,” Regis said, with a genuine smile. “This will keep you in herbs and vegetables all year round. You’ll have strawberries for the winter solstice.”

“Maybe,” Geralt said, “if I live to see the next one.” He immediately regretted saying it. “Never mind. We’ll get it fixed up. It will be great.”

Regis sighed slowly. “Yes.” He looked up at the roof where moss was growing in dark patches. “I’m sorry about Angoulême. When she has an idea, she cannot be dissuaded.”

“It’s not your fault,” Geralt said. He felt a trickle of bitterness. “You have a right to stay away from me, if that’s what you want.”

“I don’t want it,” Regis said, voice sharp. “It is necessary, to maintain my equilibrium.”

“What?” Geralt said, looking at him hard. “What are you talking about?”

“Obviously, I struggle with self-control in your presence,” Regis said, eyes still fixed on the middle distance. “To avoid resorting another rash action and giving into physical desires, I chose to keep a distance. It seemed the safest option. But I don’t want it.”

Hope rushed into Geralt’s head, even as he pushed it away. “You could have talked with me about it instead of ducking me.”

“Geralt, you asked for this,” Regis said roughly. “You said no romantic or sexual contact. And then…”

“Yeah,” Geralt said, remembering a wet, demanding mouth on his, the cool tile of the shower against the back of his head. “So, we slipped up.” He ached, felt his skin heating. “It’s okay.”

Regis looked at him then, lips parting, eyes narrowed. “It isn’t. You can’t comprehend how difficult it is standing here now with you. You cannot fathom how I fight myself every time I’m alone with you. I must leave. You must understand that.”

“Don’t leave,” Geralt said, moving in close. “Forget what I said.” He felt desire steamrolling over the rational part of his mind. He slid a hand around Regis’ side to flatten on his lower back, pulling the other man to him. “I really hate not being able to touch you.”

“Geralt…” Regis ducked his head to the side, but he didn’t try to back away. Under Geralt’s hand, his muscles tensed then slackened. “It’s—”

“Not the smartest move,” Geralt said, tilting his face into Regis’. “I know.” He kissed the side of Regis’ mouth, heard his heavy exhalation. “We covered that already.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Regis said, soft but fast, as though he had to shoot it out before he couldn’t.

“No, I have to,” Geralt murmured as Regis lifted his head.

Then they were kissing again with the harsh force of desperation. Geralt’s hands on Regis’ hips. Regis’ hands on Geralt’s face, holding his head steady to thoroughly consume him. Lips and tongue and teeth—fangs—on Geralt, sending the fearful shivers through him. He heard himself whine high in his throat. Damn, he wanted. It was a wild, thrumming pull in his flesh.

His fingers scrambled, trying to get under Regis’ clothes. Their bodies were pressed so close, he couldn’t reach the fastening of Regis’ trousers.

Regis’ mouth skidded off his. He panted into Geralt’s neck. “We can’t, here.”

Geralt immediately wanted to contradict him. But the small portion of his brain that could still think pictured them strolling back into the house with clothes covered in dust and grime from rolling around in an abandoned greenhouse.

He groaned. “Any chance you can just teleport us both into my room?”

Regis laughed breathlessly. “No, I told you I can’t move like that while holding another person. But perhaps later tonight I could visit you?”

“Yeah, yes, definitely.” A harsh, shuddering breath. “Ten? Or maybe I can get away by nine.” He looked at Regis’ red mouth and black, burning eyes. “Damn, you make me crazy, you know.”

“Likewise,” Regis said, looking at him like a man before a feast. “Fortunately, I’m wearing a longer jacket tonight. Will you be able to calm yourself before we return?”

Geralt glanced down at the bulge in his pants. “Uh, I’ll just think of rotfiends giving birth or something.”

As they strolled faux-casually back to the house, he saw how fruitless his efforts were. Just walking beside Regis made him itch to touch, and it was impossible not to imagine what would come later in the night.

“You go in first,” he told Regis. “Give me a minute.”

Regis kindly didn’t laugh at him. He just nodded and went into the house.

Geralt paced around, mentally berating himself. Why had he suddenly reverted to a horny teenager with no control over his body? He tried to remember the last time he’d felt like this. Maybe when he’d first met Yen and even their marathon of adventurous sex had left him hungry for more.

After a few minutes of scowling out at the horizon, he felt an odd pulsing sensation under his feet. At first he thought it might simply a tremor in his body. But he scanned his surroundings and saw a lantern rocking against the wall of the shed where it hung. Just a little earthquake, then. It didn’t seem to have disturbed anything.

He’d already scanned the wine cellar and fields for traces of giant centipedes with no results. Unlikely that a shaelmaar would be found in this area. Still, with the increase in monsters appearing in the area, it wouldn’t hurt to be alert. He’d carry his silver sword with him when he walked around the property from now on.

He went into house and found the others dishing up the apple pies that Cahir had brought from the bakery. Eithné was already nearly halfway through her portion. Dandelion was there, humming his latest composition and tapping his fork against his plate to keep the rhythm.

“There he is,” Milva murmured as Geralt entered. “We worried you got lost on the way back.”

“Haha,” Geralt grumbled. He took the plate of pie that Regis handed him. “Just watching the sun go down.

“Did you feel the earth move?” Angoulême asked, taking a big bite.

“Yeah…” Geralt said, carefully.

“It shook the dishes a little,” Eithné said eagerly. “But it didn’t last long.”

“I’ll get some studs to attach the shelves to the walls,” Milva said. “I don’t know how up to code this old place is.”

“I’m sure B.B. checked the structure and foundations,” Dandelion said. “His professional pride wouldn’t allow him to do any less.”

“We really can’t thank you enough, Dandelion,” Cahir said. “Without your help we’d be in a much tougher place.”

Dandelion looked delighted. His chest even puffed up a bit. “It’s nothing for me to use my connections a bit. If I can help my friends who face danger on a daily basis, I can sleep easier at night.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Angoulême said. “Now weren’t you going to play us your new songs?”

It was then that Geralt noticed the guitar case propped against the wall. He groaned inwardly. It was going to be a long night.

Dandelion played all six of his new songs…multiple times. Eithné and Angoulême were shouting out suggestions and encouragement. Then Eithné started an impromptu dance party. Spinning around until she got dizzy, she pulled Geralt off the couch and made him dance with her. Milva got Cahir up to sway with her. Neither of them had much rhythm, but she put her arms around his neck and he put her hands on his waist and they shuffled slowly to the music. Angoulême and Regis watched, beaming.

When the performance finally ended, Regis gathered up the dessert plates and forks. “I’ll do the washing up.” He looked at Cahir. “If you don’t mind, could you please call a car for Angoulême and I? It’s time we returned and let you all enjoy the rest of your evening.”

“Don’t go,” Eithné whined.

“Hang out a little more and we’ll have the wine Dandelion brought,” Milva said. “You know that fancy stuff has got to be good.”

Regis shook his head. “We have already enjoyed wine tonight. It would be too much for us to impose on you any longer.”

Geralt glanced at the clock. Eight-thirty. Time seemed to crawl the point where Regis could sneak into his room. Maybe Geralt could get away with going to bed early. What hour had they decided on?

“Just stay here!” Eithné said loudly. “Mom, they can just sleep on the air mattress. You don’t need it now that you have a real bed.”

“There’s only one mattress, hon,” Milva said. “The couch doesn’t fold out or anything. They wouldn’t be comfortable.”

“No problem,” Angoulême said, smiling with all her teeth. “Dandelion won’t stay the night cuz he has to get back to the mansion. I’ll take the air mattress. Uncle can share Geralt’s bed. It’s big enough for two, right? You wouldn’t mind him bunking with you.”

Geralt’s muscles froze. He didn’t know what to say. His eyes darted to Regis, but Regis’ face was blank. “Um, sure,” he said. “There’s room.”

“Yay!” Eithné said, “Now we can stay up late playing games.”

“Not too late,” Milva said, studying Geralt for a reaction.

Not too late, Geralt thought, aching inwardly. Heat gathered under his skin, feeling the scrutiny of the group and the magnetic draw of Regis just across the room.

Cahir and Dandelion didn’t seem to get what was going on, but the women looked happy enough at the turn of events. Angoulême was practically licking her lips at the victory of her little machinations. He gave her a narrow glare and it only made her smirk widen. “Just helping you get laid, Gramps,” he could picture her saying.

After several rounds of card games and charades, Milva put Eithné to bed with some difficulty. They could hear the girl whining all the way up the stairs. She did not want the party to end.

Geralt made a show of stretching and yawning. “I’m pretty worn out myself. Guess I’ll turn in a little early. Regis, just come in whenever you’re ready. Don’t worry about waking me up.”

Regis nodded. “Thank you. I’ll have another glass of wine and join you a little later.”

Geralt was careful not to let his gaze linger as he stood. Doubtless Milva and Angoulême were both laughing to themselves about the whole dance. Still, he wasn’t quite ready to announce to the gang that Regis and he were getting it on. Not without talking to Regis first, anyway.

He moved down the hall to the bathroom, brushed his teeth, washed up real quick under his arms and around his groin. Then to the bedroom where he undressed quickly. In his boxers and t-shirt, he circled the room restlessly. There wasn’t much besides the bed and a couple plastic crates with his clothes and gear. He opened one and got out a little jar of oil. In the old days, he used to purify it himself, as base for his blade oils and salves. Now it was just easier to order online.

Mindlessly, he rolled the jar in his palm, tossed it from one hand to the other. His mind was ablaze with possibilities. They’d have to talk first, he decided. Things were so up in the air. But he didn’t really want to talk. He didn’t want rehash all the issues and give them both reasons to back away again. He didn’t want to scare Regis into keeping a safe distance once more. It just doesn’t work, he’d tell Regis. It makes us both miserable. I don’t want to feel that way ever again.

But as the minutes ticked on, his impatience grew. How long did it take to drain a glass of wine, for fuck’s sake? He slid a palm over the front of his boxers where he had a half-chub. Even the slight pressure made him huff out a breath. He rubbed a little, teasing the friction. Yeah, that was real good.

The jar of oil was a hard weight in his other hand, warmed by his grip. He looked at it a moment, then unscrewed the lid. Bending over the bed, he pulled his boxers down and touched himself experimentally. It’d been a really long time. He’d let a guy fuck him on a rare occasion, when he was drunk. More often it’d been Yen plying him with dildos and even a strap-on, when she was in the mood. The memory of those days sent a shudder of want through him.

He dipped his fingers in the thick gel and worked one into himself. Not bad. Didn’t feel like much, though. He added another, more of a stretch. Pain, but the good kind. He stretched himself slowly, feeling around. It was weird, like he remembered, but the best part came later. Working himself steadily, searching for those elusive sparks of sensation, he barely heard the door open.

Geralt jerked upright, almost tripping over the boxers tangled around his ankles. Regis stood in the open doorway for a moment, then swiftly closed the door behind him. The dark depths of his eyes pulled at Geralt’s center.

“Hi,” Geralt yelped, awkwardly pulling at the sides of his t-shirt that did nothing to over his stiff erection. “You surprised me.”

Regis gave him a slow, terrifying smile. “Turn around,” he said shortly. “As you were.”

Geralt swallowed hard and obeyed, resting his hands on the bed and lifting his ass. Unable to see Regis, he breathed low and deep. His skin felt tight and hot. For a moment, nothing happened. He didn’t hear any footsteps, and yet Regis was there, brushing fingers over his lower back. Long nails traced the knobs of his spine, sharp and deadly. Geralt felt his breath stutter in his lungs.

“You prepared yourself,” Regis said, voice low and rich. “Waiting for me?” The points of his nails scraped stinging trails up Geralt’s ribs, dragging his shirt up.

Sweat dampened Geralt’s face. He closed his eyes. “Yeah,” he said hoarsely.

Regis made a pleased sound. His fingers trailed down to Geralt’s chest to scrape over his nipples. Geralt had a full-body convulsion at the sensation. A sharp, startled noise escaped him. His erection twitched against the bedcover.

“Remarkably sensitive, despite your resistance to pain,” Regis murmured. “Intriguing.” The points of his nails pinched tight on Geralt’s nipples, drawing another spasm out of Geralt’s body.

Geralt pushed his face into the bedspread, muffling his helpless whine. Regis’ fingers on his nipples pricked and teased. When they finally released him, he felt dizzy with the relief. His scraped skin ached and throbbed.

Gradually, Regis’ hands slid down to Geralt’s belly, stroking the muscles of his abdomen. One nail circled his navel, just above his straining erection. Caught between hunger and fear, Geralt could only turn his head to the side and breathe hard, fingers digging deep into the mattress.

“What do you desire?” Regis asked, just above a whisper.

Geralt’s mind was boiling with desires. He moaned wordlessly against the blanket.

Regis’ hands moved to Geralt’s hips and his thumbs gently stroked over the hard ridges of the bones there. “Speak to me,” he said, soft and compelling. “Don’t be afraid. Everything is yours.”

Everything, Geralt thought hazily. He was glad he couldn’t see Regis’ face. The sound of his voice was devastating enough. It drew out a vulnerability that he never knew he had. Surrender, sweet release of control—he wanted it so badly. Baring his throat and waiting for the bite.

“Fuck me,” he told Regis, voice cracking.

Regis’ hands stilled. He inhaled sharply. “Yes,” he said at last.

Then his touch left Geralt. Left him there braced over the bed, squirming and burning with shame and desire. A rustle of clothing, the click of nails against the jar of oil. Finally, his hands on Geralt’s ass, smoothing and spreading him.

It wasn’t like what Geralt remembered with Yen, or the blurry memory of drunken hook-ups. It wasn’t like any sex he’d had before. Any pain and discomfort faded, smothered by Regis’ breathy voice, the sweet bite of his nails on Geralt’s hips, his hot mouth on the back of Geralt’s neck. Everything else disappeared in the fog of sensation. He felt the threads in the bedspread under his cheek and the scrape of Regis’ clothes against his back. He smelled his own sweat and Regis’ herbs and red wine. His sticky fingers clutched the bedspread, tightening with the muscles in his arms.

They soon abandoned gentle, slow movement. It only made Geralt desperate for more. And Regis was so strong. The force of his thrusts rocked Geralt’s own powerful body, jolting him forward. Thick, hot pleasure radiated from his core through all his limbs, echoing and reverberating in his body with each stroke. He bit at the bedspread to keep from crying out.

Regis hissed something in a strange language. His soft grunts filled Geralt’s ears. One hand moved from Geralt’s hip and down to his belly. Nails pricked against the underside of Geralt’s shaft, drawing a choked moan out of him.

“Fuck,” Geralt said into the bed, just a rush of breath. “Fuck, fuck.”

Inside him, Regis began to lose his rhythm, juddering fast and wild. It was all Geralt could do to keep from collapsing under him. Then he felt sharp points of teeth pressing into the meat of his shoulder. The shot of white-hot fear melding with blind pleasure sent him over the edge, shouting into the mattress.

Regis’ body pressed him down flat, even as they both rocked and twitched with the rolling aftershocks. Regis panted into Geralt’s shoulder for a moment. Then he lifted his head and nuzzled there briefly. Geralt couldn’t smell any blood, but his heart still pounded hard.

After a little time, Regis eased out of him carefully. He wiped Geralt clean with something—a handkerchief? Then he rubbed Geralt’s back gently before smoothing his hair down over his neck.

“Are you all right?”

Sunk in a blissful stupor, Geralt finally managed to move his heavy limbs. He turned over and sat up. “Yeah,” he said, voice rough. His t-shirt was still rucked up to his armpits. He pulled it over his head.

“I’m sorry,” Regis said.

Geralt glanced at the shirt. There were tiny holes in the back where Regis’ teeth had torn through. He touched the back of his shoulder. Though the skin there stung slightly, it was still intact. “It’s okay.” He kicked off the shorts still tangled around his feet. Then he looked at Regis.

Regis had done up his trousers and was fully clothed, sitting on the bed beside Geralt. His hands rested in his lap and his eyes were steady on Geralt’s. “Did I hurt you?”

“What? No,” Geralt said, scrunching his brow. “Not in any way I didn’t want, anyway. It was fucking hot.”

Regis’ smile warmed him. “I think I alarmed you there at the end.”

“That’s part of the fun,” Geralt argued. “I know you wouldn’t really bite me, but it’s exciting to think about.”

“Exciting?” Regis said chuckling. “You need to develop a better sense of self-preservation.”

“A certain academic once told me it’s a natural physiological effect,” Geralt said, lips curving up. He wanted to kiss Regis, but felt a sense of distance back in place.

Regis seemed to notice Geralt’s eyes roaming over him. “I don’t have to spend the night here if it makes you uncomfortable. I can return in the morning.”

Geralt scowled at him. “Why the hell would it make me uncomfortable? If anything, sitting naked next to you with all your clothes on is freaking me out.”

“I see,” Regis said. His hands moved to the buttons of his shirt. “I simply didn’t know whether you’d want to share a bed with me for the night. It requires a certain intimacy.”

“We slept together before,” Geralt pointed out. And his heart wrenched suddenly in his chest. He could see Regis was remembering as well—the two of them curled together in the attic under the patter of rain, desperately trying to shut out reality. Then the bitter cut of betrayal and loss.

“I only—” Regis started to say. He bit back the words, hands dropping back to his lap

Geralt watched him struggle in silence and misery. Then he reached over and began unbuttoning Regis’ shirt, slowly and carefully. “We fucked up, both of us,” he said. “You should have been honest with me, but I should have seen right away that you were just scared, not cruel.” He pulled the shirt over Regis’ shoulders and down his arms. “Regis, I just don’t know how we got here. Why’d you ever choose me in the first place?”

Regis worked the shirt off over his wrists and hands, then began to fold it neatly. “I wish I could explain it to you. I certainly couldn’t explain it to Dettlaff.” He set the shirt on the carpet next to the bed. “At first, I suppose it was just curiosity. Meeting a witcher of legend stirred my inquisitive nature. And yes, I admit that I felt a physical attraction to you from the start. Perhaps it originated from that psychological trait you just mentioned. Knowing something is risky and forbidden makes it more appealing. You are a not an unattractive man, of course, but the sharp edge of danger makes desire keener.”

“Hmm,” Geralt murmured. He slid the end of Regis’ belt out of its loop and unfastened it. “Thirsty for the bad boy. I get that.”

Regis gave him an indulgent smile. “That was the start. As I spent more time with you and came to know you better, I grew to admire your sense of humor, your responsibility to protect others, and the stoic perseverance you showed in spite of all the forces working against you. I realized I was becoming more attached, even experiencing bizarre feelings of jealously toward your bond with the sorceress. It perplexed me. But I took comfort in the fact that you would never look at me that way. I could enjoy the company of your friendship without risking exposing myself. It seemed that would content me.”

“But it didn’t,” Geralt said, wrapping the loose belt in his hands. He set it on the floor.

“You are to blame,” Regis said, arching a brow. “When you suddenly showed signs of desiring me, I panicked. All of my careful restraint was withering. I was terrified that I would lose everything because I couldn’t control myself in your presence. I wanted to run away so many times, but I kept thinking, just a little more, a little longer. Let me store it all up and I’ll be happy for many years, just turning over the memories in my mind.”

“You really fucked with my head,” Geralt said, feeling that ache again.

“Yes,” Regis said. “It was unforgivably selfish of me to toy with you like that, signaling interest and pulling away.” His hands curled on his thighs.

Geralt got off the bed and sat on the floor at Regis’ feet. He eased Regis’ shoes off his feet one by one, then pulled off his socks. “Not unforgivable,” he said. “I see now.”

When Geralt rose and stood again, Regis looked up at him with uncertainty in his eyes.

“What do you see?” he asked.

Geralt moved in close, then climbed onto the bed, straddling Regis’ hips. He buried one hand in the thick dark hair at the back of Regis’ head, tilting his face up. It was so easy to kiss him like this, deeply and thoroughly. The remnants of wine and spiced apples were on his tongue. This time, there was no frantic desperation in them, only a steady sweetness spreading and deepening. Geralt drank it in, reveling in the relief he felt.

Then Regis pulled him down on the bed, rolling and covering him. The weight of his body and the warm caress of his mouth on Geralt’s brought an overwhelming comfort. Here together. Safe. Alive.

Sometime, ages later, a voice roused him out of the warm cocoon of dreams. Geralt sat up, blinking. Sunlight filtered in through the window. Regis turned over beside him.

The voice came again, much louder and closer: Milva outside his door. “You’d better get down here, Geralt. I don’t want this fucking witch in my house.”

“Wha?” Geralt tried to clear his head. “A witch?”

“She won’t go away!” Milva complained. “I told her to call you and she said she already did.”

“Kay,” Geralt mumbled, stumbling out of bed. “Hang on. I’m coming.” He grabbed his jeans off the floor and pulled out his phone. Thirteen missed calls and four messages.

Regis sat up, sheet falling to his hips. “Yennefer,” he surmised quietly. “It must be important if she tracked you here.”

Geralt pulled on his shorts and grabbed his jeans again. “Just Nilfgaard,” he muttered. “I’ll get rid of her, I promise.”

Regis just gave him a sad, inscrutable look.

“It’s no big deal,” Geralt assured him. He yanked his t-shirt over his head. “Don’t even move. I’ll be right back.” He grabbed his phone and went for the door.

Chapter Text

Entering the hallway, Geralt smelled sausage and eggs cooking. As he passed the kitchen, he glimpsed Eithné and Cahir working at the stove together.

In the living room, Milva waited with arms crossed over chest, standing next to the front door. Angoulême was sitting on the couch, legs crossed, holding her phone but clearly not paying any attention to it.

“Took you long enough,” Milva grumbled. “She’s buzzing around outside like a mad wasp.”

“You didn’t even let her in?” Geralt said with amazement. He knew Milva’s dislike of Yen ran deep. It was probably his own fault for ranting and venting to her after every breakup. She’d only heard the heard the worst from him, and had probably painted a picture of a demonic harpy in her head. Milva was nothing if not protective. It didn’t help that Yen had only ever treated her with disdain weighted with jealousy She had assumed Milva was his rebound or side woman and no amount of denial from Geralt had convinced her otherwise.

“She’s not coming in my house,” Milva said low and quiet. “And I swear, if you even think of fucking her…”

“Yeah, I know,” Geralt said shortly, slipping on some shoes and unlocking the door. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.”

But as soon as the door swung open and he saw Yen, it hit him like a physical blow. She stood on the edge of the doorstep, clutching her phone and scowling like a thundercloud. No one was more beautiful than Yen when she was angry. It was probably why so many of their fights ended with screwing on the nearest available surface. Her mouth was pursed into a full red bud in her fair face. Her violet eyes, dark with fury and glittering with a sheen of moisture struck a hard chord somewhere inside him. She wore a long white coat over simple black dress that fit her like a glove, emphasizing her perfect figure. The flimsy silver scarf twisted around her neck showed a swell of cleavage between its long ends.

“Geralt,” Yen snapped. “My face is up here. Try to focus.”

Geralt grunted, blinking hard and shut the door behind him. It’s just the bond, he told himself. This sudden, consuming desire for her couldn’t be real. After all, Regis had just fucked him thoroughly into the mattress the night before and woken him with an enthusiastic blowjob hours later. Surely, he ought to be satisfied.

“What?” he said gruffly. “You sure pissed off Milva coming here.”

“You didn’t answer your phone,” she hissed. “I couldn’t care less what your…what she thinks.”

“She is my good friend who looks out for me,” he growled. “Get to the point.”

Her gaze shifted to the window facing them. “Let’s move away from the house.”

He looked to the side and saw Angoulême’s pixie face watching them through the glass without any shame. She waved at him.

“This way,” Geralt said, gesturing. They walked toward the garden beds where just the previous day he had wandered with Regis, confused and hurting. Now it seemed a hundred years ago. The wind rattled the dry, dead plants.

Yen pulled her pale wool coat close to her body. “I need you. This is not a request or an offer. Your daughter needs you. I respected your wishes before, but I’m at the end of my options. Ciri will die or be auctioned off to the highest bidder if we don’t act now. I will not accept your refusal.”

Geralt raised his eyebrows. “What exactly are you asking me to do? Find her again? I didn’t have much luck with that.”

“We know where we can determine her whereabouts. Do you know Sigi Reuven?”

He shook his head.

“He’s a major hotel magnate in Toussaint. Formerly Sigismund Dijkstra.”

“The spy guy?” Geralt said, searching his holey memory. “I think he hates me for some reason.”

“You broke his ankle the last time you tried to find Ciri. He got in the way,” Yen said impatiently. “Now he has her imprisoned. We’re not certain where. But we have located Sigi. You can get to him and force him to reveal where she is.”

Geralt took a step back. “Who do you think I am?” he said warily. “You think I’m going to torture somebody for information? Maybe the old Geralt with all his memories would have, but not me now.”

She waved a dismissive hand. “Just threaten him. I don’t care. We need to get to Ciri.”

“No, you need to get to Ciri. I don’t know who the hell she is.” The words caught in his throat as he said them. He swallowed against the tightness there.

Her gaze sharpened. “You know that’s not true. In your heart you know her. She is yours.”

He shook his head, pressure bearing down on his chest. “I have a family now. I have sisters and brothers and a little niece to protect. I need to focus on them right now. I’m sorry about Ciri, but I can’t do what you’re asking.”

Yen turned her head away, staring out over the brown-green expanse of the hills. The wind shook trees and rustled the tall grass. The low clouds hung over the lake far below.

“Emhyr asked me to restore your memory,” she said at last. “He knew if you remembered her, you couldn’t possibly stay away. The last time she was in trouble, you moved heaven and earth. You nearly killed yourself trying to save her.” The wind tossed her hair over her face. “I didn’t tell him that I couldn’t. I don’t have the power to unseal those memories. When Philippa did it, she drew on Ciri’s power. She is a channel for source power like nothing you can imagine. Trying to do it without Ciri would drain me.”

“If Ciri is so powerful, why can’t she get free on her own?” Geralt asked.

“I don’t know,” Yen answered. “And that’s what concerns me the most. She can slip through planes of existence, visit other realms and worlds with hardly any effort. Yet she hasn’t used her power in days.” Her voice faltered slightly. “If she is dead…”

Geralt curled a hand around her upper arm, thin and delicate under the white wool. He wanted to fold her in his arms, but he didn’t dare. “He wouldn’t kill her if she’s so valuable.”

“Then what has happened to her?” Yen demanded. She turned to look at him with eyes like deep, hungry wells. “What has become of my daughter who brought me shiny rocks and shells at the seaside, who lay her head in my lap when I was angry? What has become of the little girl who feared me then loved me, despite all my faults? Where is the child you taught to fence and fight and tumble like a gymnast?”

“I don’t know her,” Geralt said, shivering in the wind. His voice had started to shake. He felt like he couldn’t get enough air in his lungs. He pulled his hand back.

“Like hell you don’t,” Yen answered bitterly. “She tried so hard to please you. She would practice sword stances and dodging and rolling for hours just to get your praise. You had foot races in the summer and snow ball fights in the winter. You took her ice skating and roller blading and she loved it. You took her dress shopping for her first big party.” Yen’s lips curled back fiercely. “Just because you don’t remember these things doesn’t mean they didn’t happen.”

Geralt closed his eyes against the burn of the wind. He could see her skating circles around him, grinning wide—the girl who wasn’t Angoulême or Eithné. She had disappeared into the crowd of coats he couldn’t find her. A rising panic scrambled his guts. Ciri.

“Where?” he said hoarsely, eyes still screwed shut.

The shudder of Yen’s heavy exhalation washed through him. “The New Lakeside Lodge. Five o’clock tonight. Nilfgaard will provide backup.”

“Fine.” He didn’t even have the energy to make a snide remark. He opened his eyes and looked at her wearily. “But I do it my way. I don’t take orders from any emperor.”

Yen’s mouth twisted but she nodded her assent.

“See you then.” He turned and started walking back to the house. The pull inside him was a band stretched tight, longing to return to her.

“Geralt,” she called at his back. Then softly, “Thank you. I’m sorry…for all of it. Thank you.”

He tipped his head and kept walking, afraid to stop.

Inside, everyone was eating breakfast at the long table in the dining room. Eithné was arranging her food into shapes and faces. Cahir was trying to get her to actually eat. Regis sat on the far end, sipping a glass of orange juice. Milva was in the process of sitting down, as though she hadn’t just been plastered against the window, watching his every movement. Angoulême didn’t even pretend that she hadn’t been spying. She still stood by the window, watching Yen walk down the drive.

“You guys sure talked for a while,” Angoulême said. “What did she want?”

Geralt leaned back against the door. “I have to help her get Ciri back.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” Milva said firmly. “Don’t you see that she was trying to manipulate you…coming here in that dress, with full makeup, standing so close to you? She’s got you twisted around her finger. I saw the way you looked at her.”

“That’s not true,” Geralt shot back. “It wasn’t about us. It was about Cirilla.”

“Your hand was on her arm,” Angoulême said. “Seemed pretty cozy to me.”

“It’s none of our concern,” Regis said in loud, firm voice. “Geralt may choose speak with or be with anyone he likes. Now, please sit down and enjoy this splendid breakfast and let our friend divulge as much or as little as he cares to.”

Everyone looked a little startled at that, including Geralt himself. They’d never heard Regis speak with that kind of force. Angoulême stalked to the table, eyes still flashing. She curled her legs over her seat and used her fork to stab a huge clump of eggs out of the pan.

Geralt settled into the empty seat by Milva and started dishing up. He tried to sort out his thoughts. They formed a dense swarm in his head. Everyone ate silently. Even Eithné had abandoned her food art to quietly chew on a sausage.

“It’s my kid,” Geralt said at last. “I can’t remember her, but I dream about her. She’s in a lot of trouble right now. She might be hurt pretty bad. I believe Yen, and I know she must be really desperate coming to me now. So I have to do something.”

“A kid?” Eithné squeaked. “How old is she?”

Geralt felt embarrassed that he didn’t know. “Twenty? Twenty-five?”

Eithné made a face. “That’s not a kid,” she complained.

Everyone laughed. And just like that, a dark cloud started to lift off the table.

“And what’s this rescue mission entail?” Cahir asked, sawing off a piece of sausage with a glint in his eye.

“Oh no,” Geralt said warningly. “This is a solo assignment. None of you are getting involved.”

Milva exchanged a knowing glance with Cahir. Regis just hid his smile behind his glass of juice. Angoulême chewed noisily, staring Geralt directly in the eyes.

Geralt swallowed weary curse. “Are you all ever going to just let me run a job on my own?”

Milva snorted. “Not this one.”

After the breakfast dishes were done, Geralt went to his room to get his weapons and gear in order. He was organizing the potions in his bag when a knock sounded on the door. Regis poked his head in cautiously. “May I have a moment?”

“Of course,” Geralt said, getting to his feet. “What’s up?”

Regis cast his gaze over the armor and weapons scattered on the floor. “I won’t take much of your time. It’s simply that Yennefer’s visit has caused me to consider certain possibilities. I wished to express my conclusions to you.”

“Yeah?” Geralt said, moving closer to him. He didn’t like the calm detachment in Regis’ eyes.

Regis tucked his arms behind his back. “I don’t want to restrain you in any way. Just because we have had sexual relations a handful of times doesn’t mean you should…avoid reconnecting with Yen.”

Geralt looked at him without saying anything for a minute, trying to work out what Regis meant. “I’m not avoiding her. But I’m not going to have sex with her, if that’s what you’re saying.”

“With the bond between you, it’s natural to experience a strong physical and emotional connection. Also, you’ve known each other for a long time. You raised a child together.” His face was smoothed into a gentle expression of understanding. “I only wish you to know that I wouldn’t feel betrayed if you decided to be with her again.”

“Huh,” Geralt said, because what he really wanted to say was much worse. A little knot of fire was gathering under his sternum. “You really think I’d do that. This…whatever we’re doing is just sex? How much of an idiot man-whore do you think I am?”

“I don’t,” Regis protested, but Geralt cut him off.

“Look, I don’t cheat, I told you that. Witcher libido, or magical bonds, or whatever. I don’t cheat.”

“It’s not infidelity,” Regis said, voice straining to stay calm. “We are not in an established relationship, and even if we were, you would be free to end it at any time to be with the person you love.”

“Huh,” Geralt said again. The fire in his chest was climbing to an inferno. He took a long breath to try to regain some cool. “I don’t even know what to say to you right now. You told me you’d been pining after me for a long time, and now you’re just willing to usher Yen through the door, no problem?” He leaned in close to Regis. “I’m not sure what you think this is, but let me make it clear now. I’m with you. I don’t want to be with anyone else. And if that changes, I’ll tell you. But I don’t think it will.”

Regis inhaled as though to speak, then shut his mouth. Then he opened it again. He had that guarded, careful look on his face. “I see. That is acceptable.”

Geralt sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I can tell you don’t completely believe me. But I don’t really believe that you’re okay with me sleeping with other people. You’re doing that self-sacrificing bullshit again.”

Tension lines formed between Regis’ brows. “It’s called an open relationship. Many people find it satisfying.”

“Do you want to fuck other people?” Geralt demanded.

Regis looked startled. “No…”

“Then don’t decide that about me. I’m not some mindless horndog.”

“I never assumed you were. I’m attempting to give you freedom.” He spread his hands open, as though offering it.

Geralt shook his head. “I have as much freedom as I want. If I decide I want more, you’ll be the first to know about it.”

Regis’ shoulders dropped. He nodded slowly. “That’s gratifying to hear.” His eyes fastened on Geralt’s. “I appreciate your honesty and I apologize for offending you.”

“It’s fine,” Geralt said, even though it wasn’t. Not really.

And then Regis smoothly changed the conversation to the collection of potions arrayed on the floor.

Geralt still felt the burn inside him, but he didn’t know how to fix it. What could he do to make Regis believe that he was serious? A signed contract? A blood vow? Now that he thought about it, his track record for lasting relationships hadn’t exactly been stellar. Maybe Regis was right to have some doubts about them.

But dammit, he’d really thought Regis was into him. Angoulême had said, “He was fucking in love with you.” She exaggerated, of course. Still, the way Regis talked about admiring and wanting him from a distance…it sounded real—certainly more than the casual attachment of someone who’d say, ‘Feel free to hook up with your ex. I don’t mind.’

They all gathered in the living room that afternoon, sorting through the plan while Eithné watched her daily cartoons. They’d already concluded that Angoulême would stay with Eithné that night while the others accompanied Geralt. He didn’t love the idea of bringing Milva and Cahir to a gunfight, but he knew they’d trained for it. And they were both really goddamn stubborn.

Then all the weapons and necessities were loaded in the car and it was time to say goodbye. Angoulême herded Eithné into the room, even though she was reluctant to leave the screen.

Milva hugged her tight. “Don’t forget to brush your teeth. Don’t watch any scary movies.”

“I won’t.” Eithné looked at Geralt. “Is your daughter coming to stay with us?”

“I don’t know,” Geralt said. “Probably she’ll stay with her mom.”

“I want to meet her,” Eithné declared.

“I hope you will.” His heart sank slowly as he realized he had no idea what was coming—if Ciri was injured or dead, or if she’d flee again as soon as she had the chance. The last time he’d seen her she’d told him to stay away.

“We’d better go,” Cahir said, checking the time on his phone. “I’d like to scope out the place before we enter.”

“There’s one thing I wanted to say before we leave.” Geralt gathered up his courage. He moved next to Regis and took his hand. Regis tensed and shot an astonished look at him. “Um, some of you probably already guessed that Regis and I are together now. Just recently. I didn’t want it to be a secret or anything.”

Regis’ hand was loose in his. His posture remained stiff. Geralt wondered if this was a huge mistake, if Regis really didn’t want the others to know. He’d thought it would be a comforting gesture, but maybe he’d totally fucked things up.

“Well, duh,” Angoulême said, rolling her eyes. “Did you think we were all blind?”

Milva smiled softly. “Took you two long enough.”

Cahir looked astonished.

Eithné also seemed a little confused. “Is he your boyfriend?”

“Uh,” Geralt sent another nervous look to Regis. “If he wants to be...”

Clearly shaken, Regis managed a slow, crooked smile. “As we have half a dozen centuries between the two of us, perhaps ‘manfriend’ would be more appropriate.”

His hand squeezed around Geralt’s at last.

They rolled up to the hotel at a quarter to five. It was an immense white building with pale pink accents overlooking the lake. Geralt parked Roach on a side street and the four of them climbed out to survey the hotel. Geralt counted six rows of windows, with probably some service areas in the basement—a huge structure to search. He looked around, but couldn’t see any telling black SUVs or mysterious vans bristling with SWAT teams. At least the Nilfgaard secret service wasn’t completely stupid.

Cahir scowled up at the layers of floors. “There could be a lot of civilians in there.”

“That’s why we’re doing the targeted approach,” Milva said. “We just need to find this Dijkstra guy.”

“It’d take forever,” Geralt murmured, “…if we didn’t have a vampire who can walk through walls, move crazy fast, and turn invisible.”

Regis grinned with his fangs on display. “I’ll locate him as soon as I can, then call you.”

A message from Yen buzzed on Geralt’s phone: West side service door. Breach in five.

Geralt quickly tapped on her number.

She answered in a soft, low voice. “We have to go now. They’re already on high alert.”

“Why?” Geralt hissed. “Did they get tipped off?”

“Obviously. We tapped into the surveillance network. The place is swarming. Someone pulled a fire alarm and the guests are all evacuating. They have half a dozen security agents checking everyone as they leave. The rest are going through the halls methodically checking every room.”

He strained his senses and could pick up the sound of many excited voices from the other side of the building. They must be evacuating the guests out the front doors.

“Dijkstra is flushing the place out,” Yen snarled. “There’s no way we can slip in unnoticed.”

“We can,” Geralt said. “Call off your guys. I’ll send in a ninja. He’s practically invincible.”

“I can’t call them off. I’m not their commander. We’re going in now. Get here or you’ll be left behind.”

She hung up on him and Geralt cursed at his phone. “Time’s up,” he told the others. “Nilfgaard’s going in from the west side. Regis, get to Dijkstra as soon as you can and give me his location.”

“I’d rather go with you,” Regis said. “If you’re entering now, I can clear a path for you and prevent casualties. If you follow the Nilfgaardians you’re sure to be trapped in a shootout.”

“Dijkstra will get away if we move too slow,” Milva said. “We need you to find him as soon as possible.”

“Here,” Cahir said. “Regis can let us in and scout out a path for us. Then he goes for Dijkstra. We can take care of ourselves. They’ll be more focused on the Nilfgaard assault.”

To emphasize his statement, the sound of gunfire sounded from the other side of the building.

“Let’s go,” Geralt said.

They located a gate to the fenced pool area and Regis slipped through, opening it for them from the inside. Then they tromped up the steps and through the glass doors.

Inside was a long hallway stretching from the lobby to the guestrooms. Immediately two goons on the far end noticed them and shouted. “Hey, identify yourselves!”

Regis made a choked sound. “Something is wrong,” he gasped.

Geralt thought briefly of trying to bluff with the guards, but he and Cahir and Milva were all dressed in combat gear and carrying visible weapons. One of the guards drew the handgun at his waist and the other spoke in a low voice to the microphone in his earpiece.

Geralt formed the sign for Aard and threw it at them. Nothing happened. “Shit,” he said quietly, feeling cold all the way to his bones.

From the corner of his eye he saw Milva raise her gun. “Don’t move!” she barked at the men.

They both raised their guns as well. “Permission to eliminate intruders,” one snapped into his wire.

“I can’t transform,” Regis hissed at Geralt.

Geralt clenched his teeth and drew his steel. “Get out,” he told Regis.

Then the closest guard fired and they all dove into motion. Milva took the bullet in the front of her vest with a pained grunt. She fired her own weapon and dropped to a crouch. Geralt rolled forward, slicing at their legs, but Cahir had already taken out one with a headshot. The other fell with his shins sliced open and Milva finished him off. Regis had flattened himself against the wall, shoulders hunched, eyes sharp.

More shouts and footsteps echoed down the hall. Geralt sent a frantic glance around. Milva signaled to the double doors ahead of them and they all barreled through them into an empty restaurant. It was filled with white-covered tables arranged in neat perfection, vases of dried flowers. A coffee bar on a rolling metal cabinet was parked in one corner. Geralt grabbed Regis’ hand and pulled him to it. As the doors behind them blasted open, he pushed Regis behind the cart and crouched beside him. Milva and Cahir upended a table and sank behind it. They shot at the men who entered the room, driving them back.

Geralt heard a clatter from the other side of the room and saw security guys coming in through the kitchen. He gripped his sword and sprang for them, reaching the first in seconds. As the man lifted his gun, Geralt cut it out of his hands, taking a couple fingers with it. He spun, blade arching for the next man, but the kitchen door punched outward again, slamming into Geralt’s side. He stumbled but kept his balance, bashing his elbow into the new man’s nose. The attacker fell to the ground, but the man on Geralt’s left had his gun up now. A bullet blasted next to Geralt’s ear.

Then the shooter fell under Regis’ flying weight. The vampire, still in his human form, did not seem to have lost his strength. He wrestled for the gun, snarling at the man beneath him. Geralt kicked the man in the head and he released the gun.

Geralt twisted to see Cahir trying to hold off the others while Milva slammed another clip into her gun. Across the room, half a dozen security guys had crouched behind tables and were returning fire. Regis sprang to his feet and trained his newly acquired weapon on the nearest attacker. The vase on their table shattered to fragments.

Regis’ hands were shaking. Probably he’d never held a weapon before. He’d never needed one.

Milva cried out as the wood of the table splintered. She fell backwards. Geralt and Regis both ran for her, attracting more gunfire. Geralt felt a bullet slam into the side of his kevlar vest.

Then Regis dropped. The sound he made as he fell sent a shock of fear through Geralt. He unhooked a samum bomb and tossed it to the other side of the room, ducking to cover Regis. The blast shook the room and sent up a cloud of debris. The gunfire stopped. Geralt dragged Regis over to the bullet-riddled table where Cahir was leaning over Milva. She wiped a smear of blood under her eye.

“Just a cut from the splinters,” Cahir told Geralt shakily.

Milva touched the flattened bullet on her shoulder but her eyes went to Regis. “What happened?”

Geralt turned him over. Blood seeped from a hole in his abdomen. There was no exit wound, so the bullet was still lodged inside. Regis stayed calm, but he looked even paler than usual. “I’m fine,” he insisted. “As soon as we leave this place, I’ll most likely heal.”

“Can you walk if I support you?” Geralt asked hurriedly, heart banging against his chest.

“We have to split,” Milva said. “That bomb wasn’t exactly subtle.”

“I’m getting Regis out,” Geralt said. His phone buzzed with a call and he swiped it on. “Yen, where are you?”

“We just swept the basement,” she said. “The entire place is surrounded by Nilfgaard. He won’t get away. But I can’t stay here. My magic is useless. He’s created some kind of power drain.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” Geralt said hurriedly. “Look, do you have any medics with you? My friend got shot.”

“I’ll check,” she said. “Geralt, I need you to track Dijkstra. If he has a secret panic room, it could take us ages to find him.”

“Right,” Geralt said. “After I get my friend out.”

She sighed. “Bring him to the courtyard entrance. I’ll have a van meet you there.” The call ended.

“I can take Regis,” Milva said. Blood was still trickling down from under her eye down her cheek. “You guys find that asshole.”

“Dijkstra can wait,” Geralt said. “Regis comes first.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Regis protested. “I won’t die like this.” He pushed himself upright with clear effort, face twisting with pain.

Geralt studied the steady flow of blood darkening his shirt. “Hang onto my shoulder. Get your feet under you.”

With Regis leaning on Geralt, they staggered out of the wreckage of the restaurant, through the far doors to another hallway. The line of windows looked out on a manicured terrace with a view of the lake. Steps led down to a courtyard with low flower beds, wide marble benches, and an unusually ugly white fountain shaped like an eagle with spread wings.

“Just a little farther,” Geralt told Regis. The vampire was walking with little support from him, but he could tell that every step was agony by the expression on Regis’ face. Down the ramp, the arched windowed doors to the courtyard loomed.

Then the sound of running footsteps echoed nearby. “Incoming,” Milva said quickly. Cahir turned and kicked open the nearest door in the hallway.

It was a conference room with a low stage and many rows of black chairs. They moved to the wall next to the door and looked for cover. Geralt considered dragging one of the folding tables to block the doors, but they didn’t look heavy enough. Then, near the stage, a figure emerged—a huge bald man in an expensive suit. Dijkstra, Geralt realized, with a moment of foggy recognition. Almost obscured behind him was a much smaller figure holding a knife to his throat with some difficulty. And just after them walked a bedraggled red-headed woman carrying what appeared to be a broom handle.

They all froze. Then the red-haired woman said, “Geralt?” in a stunned voice.

Dijkstra laughed without humor.

From behind him, Ciri’s pale face emerged, scanning them with obvious surprise and fear. There were bruises marring her throat and wrists. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“Um, rescuing you?” Geralt said uncertainly. “Looks like you got that taken care of…”

“Dammit,” she said. “Cover him for me. There’s a whole squad of his men just waiting to burst in.”

As if to underscore her words, the door near Geralt flew open and he immediately pivoted, sword raised.

A man in black body armor ducked into the room, gun extended. Geralt nearly sliced into him before he saw the insignia on his shiny helmet. Nilfgaard.

“We’re with Yennefer!” he shouted as Cahir and Milva both trained their guns that way.

The man in the helmet paused, then nodded and signaled for the others behind him to enter.

“Geralt,” Ciri said warningly. “What’s going on?”

“Yen’s here,” he said. “She’s brought the black ones to help us.”

Ciri’s hand still held the knife tightly to Dijkstra’s throat. “I threatened his guys to stay back, but they could be bursting in any second.” She jerked her head to the far door near the stage. “We need to find the nearest anchor.”

Dijkstra sniffed. “If I tell you, you have no reason to keep me alive.”

“I’m not above killing you anyway and tearing this place apart,” she threatened. “And if I don’t, you can bet Nilfgaard will find a way to make you talk.”

“It’s somewhere outside,” the other woman said, still clutching her stick.

Regis sagged against Geralt. “The fountain,” he said weakly.

Dijkstra’s eyes leaped to him with startled surprise.

“Let’s go,” Geralt said, wrapping an arm around Regis’ waist. He felt the slick heat of blood soaking into his sleeve.

Just then, the door near the stage thudded open and Dijkstra’s men came flooding in. The red-headed woman ran as Ciri turned Dijkstra like a shield. “I said, stay back!”

The woman with the broom handle came flying toward Geralt’s group. “We have to destroy the anchor!”

“Cover Cirilla!” Geralt snapped at the Nilfgaardians. Then he bundled Regis back out into the hallway with Cahir, Milva, and the woman behind him. They made for the door to the courtyard, Geralt half-carrying Regis out. Behind them, shouts were flying, but no gunfire yet. Geralt hoped desperately that Ciri’s hostage and Nilfgaard’s protection would save her.

Outside, the sunlight seemed incredibly bright. Geralt set Regis down on the stones of the courtyard, but his wound continued to bleed steadily. His skin was white and eyes unfocused. “Hang on,” Geralt told him, trying to calm his own racing pulse. Surely a higher vampire couldn’t be killed by a bullet, even if he were stripped of his usual powers. He scanned for any sight of a van with medics.

The woman had started hammering at the fountain with her makeshift weapon. Milva crouched next to Regis, brow tensed. “What’s wrong with him?”

“I don’t know,” Geralt said. “It’s affecting my signs and Yen’s magic too. I think we have to bust up that fountain.” He unclipped another samum bomb from his belt and stood.

“Stand back,” he told the hammering woman, raising the bomb. She lifted wild eyes to him and he recognized her as the sorceress who delivered the warning before Philippa’s attack. Another piece of the puzzle. As she backed away, he threw the bomb and they all dropped to cover their heads.

The blast broke the fountain into fragments of white plaster and a white smoke. When the dust cleared, they saw a twisted metal shape concealed beneath. It had clearly been warped by the force of the bomb.

Regis made a soft sound. Slowly, he sat upright.

Then a black circle opened in the air near them and Yen emerged, looking bewildered but stylish in her dark, form-fitting gear and boots. “What did you do?” she demanded. Her eyes swept over them all. “Triss?”

The redhead sighed and set down her makeshift weapon. She too had bruises on her wrists and face. Her hair was a mess of wild orange-red. “Yen. She’ll be here soon.”

A flash of green and Ciri appeared. She stiffened at the sight of them all.

Yen’s gaze drank her in hungrily. “Please don’t go,” she whispered, moving in close to Ciri. “Let me hold you once, at least.”

Ciri bit her lip. Her body remained tense, but her eyes beginning to shimmer. She stood there as Yen approached and wrapped her arms around her. Then she briefly lay her head on Yen’s shoulder with a sound like a sob.

“You don’t have to run,” Yen said. “I can protect you now. I won’t let her take you. Nor hurt any of us.”

“You weren’t supposed to remember,” Ciri said, snuffling.

“How could I forget?” Yen smoothed a hand down her back. “My wild little witch-girl.”

After a moment more, Ciri released Yen and moved to hug Geralt. He held her carefully, shaken but not understanding why. There were fragments of feeling there; he just couldn’t connect them. They rattled sharp and dangerous inside him. He tried to hold her close.

Ciri pulled her head back and looked up at him. “You don’t remember,” she said with wonder in her voice.

He looked into her deep green, glistening eyes. “I want to,” he said. “Will you help me?”

“Come with us,” Yen implored.

A plink sounded in the quiet air as the bullet in Regis’ stomach popped out and hit the cobblestones. Geralt felt relief run through him. Milva sighed happily. The other women stared at Regis with shock.

Then a winged shadow swooped over them and an owl lighted beside the ruins of the fountain. Its form grew and lengthened into the shape of a tall woman in a red dress with long, dark braids.

Philippa Eilhart.

Caught between factions, Triss Merigold pondered her options. She often found herself weighing potential good against necessary evil and she didn’t always make the best choice. But when it came to saving her friends, she usually found herself risking more than she should.

When Triss and Keira had stumbled upon the trap in the abandoned shopping center, Keira had smartly portaled out when she saw the ranks of armed men closing in. It had turned into a hellscape of flying bullets and falling bodies. But when Triss saw Sigi stab a needle into Ciri’s shoulder and carry her away, she couldn’t leave. She hurtled toward them, hoping to reach Ciri and portal them both away. But the sudden shock of losing her magic sent her stumbling in confusion. After that it was easy for them to overwhelm her, bind her and take her away.

She didn’t know how long she was moved between different locations before they finally installed her in a hotel room. Sigi was relentless with his requests and threats. He wanted to draw Philippa in, but she was too smart for that. So he dredged Triss endlessly for information. She didn’t have any compunction about spilling secrets. The Lodge could take care of themselves. She knew that it was personal between Philippa and Sigi. Both of them had worked for Redania at one time. But how personal, she couldn’t really fathom. Philippa had no interest in men, as far as anyone knew. Perhaps it was a one-sided infatuation on his part. Philippa was not above using her physical appearance to get what she wanted. It was practically part of the collected sorceresses’ code to leverage sex appeal for power, though Triss always felt awkward doing it.

Trapped in the hotel room, Triss lost track of time. She lay on the bed and ran over spells in her mind. She counted the stitches in the curtains. And every other minute she reached out for a source of power and found nothing. It echoed dully inside her body—a bitter emptiness. She hadn’t felt so helpless since she was a child, scarred and unwanted.

Then the door opened and instead of the usual dour guard or Sigi’s smug face, Ciri stood there looking as bruised and haggard as Triss felt herself. Triss jerked her body upright in pure shock.

“Hey Triss,” Ciri said quietly. She moved quickly to the bed and snapped up a large black knife. “Stay still.” She cut through the ties around Triss’ wrists and helped her off the bed.

Triss shook her arms and shoulders, feeling the sharp ache of sore muscles. “How’d you get away?” she hissed, mind blurred with relief.

“They thought I’d be helpless without magic,” Ciri said. “They didn’t count on my combat training. I headbutted one of them and got him in a chokehold. He had this knife. Now I’ve got his radio and his weapons. I have to stay ahead of these guys. I ran around looking for doors with guards at them, figuring it’d either be you or Sigi.” She pulled a gun out of her waistband. “You know how to use one of these?”

“No,” Triss said, looking at it with fear. “Without my spells, I don’t think I could convince anyone that I’m a threat.”

Ciri nodded. “Okay, keep an eye out for something you can use.”

As they exited the room, stepping over the bodies of the fallen guards, an alarm began to blare.

“They know you’re missing,” Triss said. She looked around. “Where are all the other people? Is this an empty hotel?”

“This wing is closed off,” Ciri said. “It’s supposed to be being remodeled, according to the signs.”

Hearing the ding of an elevator, they ducked into a supply closet. It was dark and stank of chemicals. Triss groped around and found the handle of a mop. Lightweight, but if she detached the thick mop on the end, the metal bar could do some damage in a hard swing.

“They’ll have guards at all the exits,” Ciri whispered. “We have to find one of the anchors.”

“Anchors?” Triss repeated.

“Dimeritium anchors used to make a magic-free zone,” Ciri explained. “It blocks the sources of power. If we destroy one of them, the field will collapse and we get our power back.”

“What do they look like?” Triss asked.

“Big metal coils with a crystal in the center. He won’t have them out in the open. But they are probably near the perimeter of the grounds.”

“Okay,” Triss said, taking a deep breath. “Thanks for coming for me, Ciri. You didn’t have to.”

“Of course I did,” Ciri said impatiently. “You don’t think I believed you were really loyal to Philippa, do you? You saved Geralt and Yen for me.”

“At a price,” Triss murmured, remembering.

Muffled voices sounded in the hallway again. Then a familiar, deep drawl. Triss tensed and she heard Ciri suck in her breath.

“Now,” Ciri whispered. And she burst through the door. She launched into the nearest guard. There were two of them accompanying the big man himself. Sigi Reuven lurched back toward the wall, eyes widening at the sight of his captured prize beating up his bodyguards.

Seeing Ciri in action made Triss appreciate the effectiveness of the witcher training style. She was all fluid grace as she lunged and ducked, kicked and spun. Triss did what she could with the mop handle, but she didn’t have a lot of strength. The best she could do was distract the guys trying to shoot Ciri by swinging and jabbing at them.

Ciri managed to get to Sigi and hold a knife to his throat. “Back off,” she screamed at the remaining guards. To Triss’ amazement, her threat worked.

When they reached the conference room and met Geralt and his company there, Triss felt relief wash over her. It soon dissolved with the face-off between Sigi’s men and the Nilfgaardian forces. All Triss could think of was getting her powers back. She felt naked without them. When it became clear that the eagle fountain in the courtyard was a likely location, she raced for it. Stupid to think that she could bash it open with a mop handle, but she was desperate. Fortunately, Geralt had brought a little more firepower…

When Philippa appeared in the rubble of the destroyed fountain, Triss stiffened. She saw Geralt reach for his sword. He wouldn’t be able to win this fight, but he’d die trying. Yen immediately cast a shield around the group of them there in the courtyard. Triss raised her hands to cast, but what to who, she didn’t know. She’d worked with Philippa for years, proving her loyalty to ensure that Ciri had someone inside the Lodge looking out for her. But now that she and Ciri and Geralt and Yen were all gathered here, could they stand against Philippa together?

Standing in the wreckage of the courtyard, facing the leader of the Lodge, Triss furiously scanned through her options. If she sided with Philippa, she could continue working from inside the Lodge, but she’d probably have to hurt her friends. If she sided with the others, she’d lose her position and be forced to mount a desperate defense against Philippa and the other sorceresses, who could arrive at any moment. The power flowing through her veins at long last made her light-headed.

Geralt’s three companions all gathered near him. Even the slender man who had appeared fatally wounded was on his feet again, taking a defensive pose. He seemed to be the only one without a weapon, and hardly looked like a fighter. She wondered briefly if he was a mage too, able to heal himself so quickly.

Philippa raked her gaze over them. “Thank you for locating Ciri for me and removing the barrier. I’m certain she’ll want to come with me instead of vanishing and risking all your lives again.”

Ciri’s fingers tightened visibly around the knife in her hand.

“You won’t take her,” Yen said low and deadly. “We outnumber you and there are sixty elite Nilfgaardian agents inside that building who will emerge any moment.”

“And I have a dozen powerful sorceresses on the way,” Philippa said with a sneer. “You think bullets will stop us?”

Triss felt her palms heat with the start of a spell. Despair burned in the pit of her stomach.

Then something moved. She only saw it as a black stream of smoke, as though from sweeping torch. The thing slammed into Philippa, breaking her shields and throwing her to the ground. When the dark haze cleared, it was a monster—a man transformed into a beast with bone-like claws, black eyes, and a warped face full of carnivorous teeth. Its claws pricked the base of Philippa’s throat and its fangs were inches from her face.

Triss lurched back, horrified, and saw Ciri and Yen share her reaction. Vampire! she thought with panic. And a powerful one, if it could down Philippa. The man who had seemed near death was now the embodiment of death, ready to tear out Philippa’s throat in an instant.

Philippa’s pale face didn’t crack, but her hands were trembling under the vampire’s grip. She didn’t speak but stared up at it with undisguised fear and rage.

“You cursed him. I should give you the pain that he endured,” the monster growled. “If he asks for your life, I will end it.”

Triss jerked her head to look at Geralt, who also seemed surprised, but not unduly so.

“She can keep her life,” Geralt said slowly. “But she’ll never bother us again. Philippa, forget Ciri. She’ll never be in your control. Learn to live with disappointment.”

Philippa didn’t move. A deadly stillness came over her, the look that Triss feared the most, because she knew it meant defeat. And Philippa hated defeat.

At that moment, portals ripped the air, depositing ten sorceresses in the already crowded courtyard. They stood still, taking in the scene, just as a company of Nilfgaardian agents in full body armor and helmets streamed out of the side door, marching Sigi and his captured men in front of them.

It was mass confusion with both sides shouting information and commands. The vampire was still pinning Philippa to the ground. Geralt and his friends hadn’t moved, but looked ready to fight if the sorceresses made a move. The Nilfgaardians were frantically conferring with Yen.

Then the vampire bared its teeth and snarled at the line of sorceresses. “Leave or I kill her now.”

The sorceresses of the Lodge hesitated. Triss could tell that Sheala and Margarita were ready for a fight, but Keira and the others didn’t want to risk it.

“Leave!” Philippa shouted.

They obeyed. And when all ten had disappeared again into the blackness of their portals, Triss was surprised to see the vampire release Philippa and rise to his feet. She pulled herself up slowly, glaring at him and the sea of people behind him. Three pricks of red from the points of his claws stood out in stark relief on her ivory throat. “Vampires,” she spat. Then she opened a portal and the burning air swallowed her up.

Chapter Text

Geralt was drained, physically and mentally. He hadn’t slept much the night before, rolling around with Regis. And the stressors of the day, including watching Regis nearly bleed out in front of him and his daughter almost get spirited away by the sorceresses again, all compounded to deplete him entirely.

Yen wanted them to wait around until Emhyr arrived to meet with Ciri, but Geralt scowled at the thought and Ciri just wanted to leave. She looked exhausted herself and sported a collection of bruises and cuts from her forceful escape. Seeing this, Yen didn’t press the issue, and allowed Ciri to leave with Geralt and the others.

Yen had to debrief with Nilfgaard and the ginger sorceress—Triss—remained with her, but the rest of them retreated to Corvo Bianco. It was a long, quiet drive back, especially after Ciri fell asleep in the backseat next to Milva. Regis left on his own, able to speed back home without them. Geralt could tell Ciri was still wary in Regis’ presence. Since it had taken him a while to adjust to the idea of befriending a vampire too, he couldn’t really blame her.

Yen had promised to retrieve Ciri’s sword and the components of the dimeritium thing that they had destroyed. Apparently, there were others on the hotel grounds. Geralt didn’t really know what it meant, but it the dimeritium had blocked all sources of power. Ciri had been adamant that they recover the “anchors” but the whole thing made Geralt uneasy. It made him sick to think about the moment of realization when he’d been unable to use his signs and watched Regis turn frighteningly vulnerable.

Cahir drove them back so that Geralt could doze in the passenger seat. When Roach rolled up the gravel driveway and creaked to a stop, Ciri sat up with a jerk, eyes wild, body tensed for flight. Milva managed to calm her down. “You’re home, you’re safe.”

In the house, there were more introductions. Eithné hugged Ciri’s waist and looked up at her adoringly. “You’re so pretty!”

Angoulême just said, “Cool scar.”

Milva brought Ciri to the air mattress in the spare room where she stiffly pulled off her boots and lay down. She’d been on the run for so long, she probably didn’t ever feel safe enough to relax anymore, Geralt thought unhappily.

When he left her to rest, he found Regis standing in the kitchen, watching a kettle quietly steaming on the stovetop. He looked pensive and almost as tired as Geralt felt.

“Hey,” Geralt said, going to him. He reached down to Regis’ stomach and felt the fabric stiff with dried blood, the tiny bullet hole. “Don’t scare me like that again. I had no idea dimeritium could affect you.”

“Neither did I,” Regis murmured, hand covering his. “It frightened me as well. I thought my ability to transform was part of my physiology, not dependent on a source. But it appears I was wrong. Somehow Dijkstra created a field that not only blocked magic but also my natural vampiric capabilities.”

“I don’t think he was expecting any vampires,” Geralt said with a wry smile. “And Philippa wasn’t either. You gave her a shock she won’t forget.”

“I alarmed Ciri and Yen as well,” Regis said quietly. “Perhaps I should keep my distance for a time.”

“No way,” Geralt said. “Once they meet you properly, they’ll understand who you really are.”

“I’m a monster.” Regis’ fingers wrapped around his. “They saw my true form in a moment of violence. After that, it won’t be easy to convince them that I’m not a threat.”

“You saved us from a major battle with the Lodge,” Geralt reminded him. “Who knows how many would have died if you hadn’t acted. Plus, you knew exactly where that anchor thing was.”

“It was simple deduction. The fountain appeared to be recently and hastily constructed. It did not fit the aesthetic of the rest of the area and it was on the perimeter.”

Milva poked her head into the kitchen. “Sorry to interrupt, but I’m gonna run to the store and pick up some things. Would you say Ciri is a size four?”

Geralt’s mind went blank. “Um…”

“Never mind. You two, get some rest. I’ll be back soon.”

As soon as she left, the tea kettle started to whistle. Regis picked it up and poured it into a mug. “Something herbal to help you sleep?”

“I won’t have any trouble with that.” He yawned so deeply his jaw popped.

The pots hanging over the stove rattled slightly and the floor vibrated under Geralt’s feet for a few seconds. The hot water in Regis’ mug sloshed against the sides.

Geralt frowned. “Are the quakes getting stronger? I thought aftershocks were weaker.”

“The tectonic plates are shifting,” Regis explained. “These are just small events so far. Not unusual.” But there was a little frown between his eyes. “I will return to my shop tonight. There are some books and ingredients I need. Please get some rest.”

“Will you be back tomorrow?” Geralt asked. “I want Ciri to meet you for real. And we need to talk with Yen about the plan going forward. Emhyr is going to fight hard for Ciri. I could use your expertise and negotiating skills.”

Regis nodded. “Most certainly. I’ll be here in the morning.”

Geralt leaned in to kiss Regis slow and soft. “If I wasn’t so tired…”

Regis chuckled. “I know.”

Ciri sat bolt upright. She’d felt a tremor run through the world, but it was gone now. Still, her vision filled with sharp fangs in a cavernous face. Deep, deep down, he waited. The earth shook with his impatience. All she could remember was a withered body encased in armor the color of fresh blood.

Safe, she reminded herself. I’m in a safe place. But, in her bones, she knew no place was safe, and the longer she stayed here, the more danger she brought to Geralt and his friends. She didn’t want to see them slaughtered like Hana. It seemed like everyone who tried to help her ended up dead.

Geralt’s friends were nice. The woman, Milva had offered her some of her own clothes. The police man made her feel safe somehow. And the two girls invited her to play games with them. She didn’t quite know how she felt about the vampire—the one who had attacked Philippa. Although the others assured her that he was on their side, Ciri had experienced too many encounters with claws and fangs to feel comfortable around someone who could transform into an unstoppable blood-sucking killer in seconds. The only thing she could do when the vampires appeared was move through space and time. She didn’t stand a chance in a fight. She could only run.

Lying back down, she listened to the beat of her heart in her ears. The house was silent otherwise. As soon as she sensed danger, she’d try to draw it away, then vanish again. Yen wouldn’t like it, but she’d be alive. That’s what counted.

Gradually, Ciri’s heart slowed and her eyes drifted closed. Just a little more sleep. Then she’d have the energy to run again.

The sound of the door to his room opening brought Geralt out of his meditation. Morning light was just beginning to glow on the edges of the window. It showed Yen standing by the door, still wearing her tight outfit from the day before. Her eyes were dark with shadows.

“May I come in?” Her voice was a rasp of sound.

“Seems like you already did,” Geralt said, rubbing a hand over his face.

Yen crossed the room and swiftly sat next to him on the bed. He was immediately aware of her scent and the soft curve of her shoulder so near his. He was also aware that he was only wearing his shorts and nothing else. But to reach for clothes felt like a defensive gesture, so he just folded his arms around himself.

“Emhyr will respect her wishes,” Yen said. “But he is determined to have regular meetings with her and make her familiar with the workings of Nilfgaard. His aim is to have her groomed to rule after him, but he understands that it will take time for her to warm up to the idea.”

Geralt snorted. “Good luck with that. If she has any sense, she’ll steer clear. But it’s her choice.” He dropped his hands to his knees. “What happened to Dijkstra?”

“We have him in custody,” Yen said. “He clearly underestimated Ciri. Even without her powers, she has her training, thanks to you.”

“Yeah,” Geralt said. “Are you going to be able to re-install my memories, now that she’s here?”

“I hope so.”  She looked at him, pursing her lips. “I want you back. All of you.” She lifted one elegant hand and folded it over the top of his, on his knee. “I know the jinn’s bond complicates things between us, but I don’t believe it’s the only reason we feel this way.”

Her palm on his bare skin was warm and soft. It tugged at a cord inside him. “Yen,” he said. “I’m always gonna love you. But we just don’t work. You know that.”

Her eyes darted up to his, dark violet like the center of an exotic flower. “Is there someone else, then? You told me that woman was just a friend.”

“Her name is Milva, and she has always been just a friend.”

“Then who?” Her hand lifted away from his knee and curled against her chest.

“It’s…Regis, the vampire,” he said, feeling weirdly defensive. “But that’s not the only reason I can’t be with you.”

Yen’s jaw didn’t fall open, but the way she stiffened and stared gave the same impression. “You’re joking with me.”

“No.” Geralt scowled. “He’s a good guy, if you get to know him.”

Yen gave him a concerned look. “Geralt, some higher vampires are capable of mesmerizing humans. Do you know what that means? He may be controlling your mind.”

Geralt’s scowl deepened. “I’m not fucking mesmerized, Yen. Have a little faith in me.”

She gave a soft, incredulous laugh. “This is not the kind of person you are attracted to Geralt. I know you sometimes play the other side of the field, but not with someone like that. Surely you must see how strange this is.”

“Fuck off,” Geralt said, fingernails digging into his skin. “You don’t get to decide who I’m attracted to.”

She closed her mouth and watched him carefully. “I see. Has he expressed strong feelings for you, then?”

Geralt didn’t know how to reply to that. “What’s it to you? He likes me. I like him.” He thought about the way Regis looked at him with such hunger and undisguised affection.

“Vampires don’t mate like humans, you know.” Yen smoothed her palms over her lap. “They live for a very long time and they tend to bond for life. Their connection is intense and powerful; it has to be, to last that long. You can’t just take a break when you get bored or stressed or someone else catches your eye.”

Geralt felt his hackles rise. “You think I’m that shallow? Just because it didn’t work out between us doesn’t mean I can’t do stable long-term.”

Yen sighed again. “I’m trying to help you, Geralt. Do you really want to be with this vampire for the rest of your life, despite anything that happens? Because if he has fallen in love with you, he will never move on. And you do not want a bitter, heartbroken higher vampire for an ex.”

“I appreciate the thought,” Geralt said. “But Regis isn’t like that. He even said he’d back off if I ever wanted to get with you again. So, if you’re trying to paint him as some jealous, controlling monster, I’m not buying it.”

“I hope you’re right.” She reached out and touched the scar on his shoulder, the new one he’d gotten from the katakan in the cemetery. “Take care of yourself, Geralt. For me and for Ciri.”

Of course, it was that instant that Regis smoked through the wall and materialized before them. He froze for a second, taking in the scene. Then, blurting, “Excuse me,” he fled out the way he’d come.

For a minute, Geralt couldn’t react. There he was—nearly naked, sitting on the bed with his ex-girlfriend, her hand on his bare shoulder. “Fuck.” He dug both hands into his hair and yanked at it. Then he scrambled to pull on a shirt.

“I’m sorry,” Yen said, turning even paler.

Geralt didn’t bother to reply. He was already rolling the t-shirt over his body, grabbing his phone, and dashing to the door.

In the kitchen, Milva was brewing some coffee and Eithné was sticking bread in the toaster. No one else appeared to be up.

“Did Regis come this way?” Geralt asked her hurriedly.

“Didn’t see him.” Milva put a hand on her hip. “What happened?”

“Huge misunderstanding,” Geralt said. “If you see him, try to make him talk to me.”

Milva’s eyes narrowed when she saw Yen emerge behind him. “Never should have let her in.”

“It’s not her fault.” Geralt said. He unlocked his phone and hastily typed out a text. “Did Angoulême spend the night here?”

“She’s at the shop, I think,” Milva said. “Geralt, don’t freak out. He probably just needs time to process. He’ll come back when he’s ready to talk.”

“He’s going to think I was lying to him,” Geralt said. “Shit, he’s going to start closing me out again. It took me so fucking long to convince him I was serious.”

He stumbled out of the kitchen still texting. Then he tried calling Regis. Then Angoulême. Then Regis again. No answer. He leaned back against the wall leaving another voicemail. “Call me, please. I really need to talk.”

After a while, Milva came and coaxed him to have a cup of coffee and a piece of toast. He kept his phone on the table next to him, praying for a ring or the beep of a text. The toast with jam was strawberry-flavored cardboard in his mouth but he chewed and swallowed nonetheless. Milva and Eithné tried to distract him, but he couldn’t concentrate. In the next room, he heard Yen talking with Ciri but he couldn’t quite make out what they were saying.

Then a thought came to him and he stood up abruptly.

“Geralt?” Milva said.

But he was already jogging for the front door. Outside, he scanned the trees for dark birds, wandering around the property like a crazy person. Finally, he spotted a trio of ravens perching the branches of an elm tree on the hillside.

He stared up at the huge birds. “Hey, do any of you know Regis?”

The birds rustled their feathers but he couldn’t tell if that was negative or affirmative. “Well, I’d really appreciate if you could get a message to him. I have lots of bread and, uh…corn for the one who can contact him for me.”

One of them cocked its head at him, so he continued. “Please, tell him, it wasn’t what he thought. I didn’t hook up with Yen. We were just talking. And I really need to see him. Tell him it’s important. I need to talk to him face to face. Or he can call me... Yeah, whatever works for him.”

The ravens exchanged a couple caws. It almost sounded like they were laughing at him. Then the bigger one dove off the branch and nearly flew into Geralt’s face. He ducked instinctively and it swooped up, claws brushing his hair. When he turned, he saw it flying over the house and south into the city.

The rest of the morning passed in a haze. Geralt stalked around the grounds. Angoulême texted him back. “Haven’t seen Uncle since last night. You better un-fuck whatever you fucked up.” Cahir came out and talked to him, but they didn’t have much to say and he had to get to the station.

He saw Ciri practicing with her sword in the courtyard, turning twists and spins like a real witcher. He watched her with amazement, remembering that night in the alley where they’d been attacked by the alps.

When she stopped and looked at him, he said, “I haven’t seen moves like that in a long time.”

“You move like that,” she countered, a little breathless. “I fight the way you taught me.”

“I guess you do,” he said. “I must be a pretty good teacher.”

She smiled at that. “It was a long time ago. I collected a lot of bruises and frustration. But I learned.”

“You wanna practice a little?” he asked. It would be a welcome distraction from the prickling anxiety in his head.

When she nodded, he got his sword and they started drilling together. Her form was good and she used her speed to compensate for her lack of bulk. She could strike and reel back before her opponent even realized what had happened. She was like a swift bird plummeting toward a target, then swooping away.

Geralt worked up a sweat trying to keep up with her. They were both flushed and grinning when they stopped.

“You know,” he said. “You can stay here as long as you want. We have that extra room free. I know Yen wants you to go back to your real dad, and you probably should. But if you ever get tired of palace life, you have a place here.”

Ciri nodded, wiping at her face. “Thanks, I’d love that. But the last time I tried to stay in one place…it didn’t end well. I’m like a magnet attracting trouble wherever I go.”

“So am I,” Geralt answered. “Maybe if we stick together, we can repel trouble. It’s easier when you have other people backing you up.”

Ciri drew in a deep breath. “It’s harder for me, because I feel like I have to protect them.”

“You really are my daughter,” Geralt said, clasping her shoulder. “Well, think about it, anyway. And if you need support when you visit Emhyr, I’m happy to go with you. He doesn’t scare me.”

Ciri sheathed her sword. “Actually, I would like you with me. I don’t really know what to expect. Probably not hugs and kisses.”

“Probably not,” Geralt agreed.

Ciri went in to take a shower and Geralt sat on the low stonewall, looking down over the hills. It was a sunny day and the stones under him had collected warmth. He took a deep breath, sucking the fresh air. A flock of geese streamed an arrowhead across the sky to the lake far below.

Then the rocks began to shake under him. A bigger quake this time, though still brief. The pastoral scene remained serene—fields and fruit trees and the white-blue sky. Geralt waited for another tremor, but none came.

A flash of movement drew his eye. Next to the shed, Regis appeared as though he’d sprouted from the earth. He stood there, making no move toward Geralt, watching and waiting. Geralt’s heart jumped in his chest. He slid off the wall and walked toward Regis.

As he drew closer, Regis slowly walked away, toward a little grove of cherry trees just starting to put out pale buds of blossoms. Geralt followed him there, cautious and fearful. He could only see Regis’ back in his dark green jacket and the wavy wings of his gray-black hair.

Then Regis stopped near a large tree and turned to look at him. His face was serenely calm. The few yards between them felt like an impassible canyon. “You wished to speak with me?”

“Yeah,” Geralt said, mouth dry. “I didn’t want you to have the wrong impression. Yen and me were just talking. In fact, we talked about you. I told her I wasn’t available because I was with you.”

Regis nodded, his expression unchanging. “I should not have appeared in your room like that. It was rude of me to bypass the customary knock.”

Geralt’s head was a mess of tangled fears. “Did you hear what I just said? There’s nothing between me and her. Nothing happened.”

“I understand,” Regis said. “I leapt in to the wrong conclusion without seeking clarification. It was my fault.” The emotionless gravity of his voice was an iron weight on Geralt.

Geralt tried to move closer. “Please, don’t freeze me out now. Talk to me. Tell me what’s happening inside that brain of yours.”

Regis folded his hands together and straightened his spine like a man facing an execution with his head held high. “In truth, this incident has once again made me question the feasibility of this…connection between us.”

“Don’t say that,” Geralt groaned. “After everything…”

“Geralt.” Regis’ voice was low and strong. “You don’t fully understand what you’re asking for. I want nothing more than to be open and generous. But it is not my nature. There is a primal force in me that desires nothing more than to possess you in every possible way. Sometimes I look at you and there is a heavy heartbeat in my head saying Mine, mine, mine. The thought of losing you rips me apart.  It’s not rational or healthy, in terms of human relationships.”

Geralt pushed down the instinctive fear. “Yen warned me about something like that.”

“She is wise to caution you,” Regis said. “But do not alarm yourself. Although a primitive part of me insists on it, I cannot dominate or monopolize you. It would only make you hate me and then I’d hate myself.” The muscles in his arms twitched as he clenched his hands together. “Instead, I will cling to any fragment that you are willing to give me—an occasional tryst, a friendship, even just an acquaintance who sometimes prepares herbs for you. I will lap up any crumb you give me. That is how pathetically desperate I am.”

Geralt blinked hard, fighting back the pain in his chest. He couldn’t believe it. “Fuck, Regis, have a little more confidence in yourself. And me.” He moved into Regis’ personal space and locked eyes with him. “Why is it so impossible for it to be us, just us? Yeah, I know, we’re a weird match, and vampire relationships are intense, and all that. Give it a chance, alright? I really like you. Really, really.”

Regis remained tense but his eyes softened under Geralt’s gaze. “Really?”

Geralt laughed unsteadily and tilted his head close to Regis. “How many times do I have to say it? Really.” He held Regis’ face in his hands and gazed steadily at him, trying to convey his certainty. “No crumbs. The whole cookie is yours. I want you to have it.”

Under Geralt’s touch, Regis exhaled deeply and closed his eyes. “It is difficult for me to believe I deserve this. I aimed to spend the remainder of my existence atoning for the devastation I wreaked in my youth. That you would openly offer me such happiness now seems unthinkable.”

“Believe it,” Geralt urged, thumbs brushed Regis’ cheekbones. “Please believe. You are more than your past. As an amnesiac, I oughta know.” He stroked a finger over Regis’ smile. “Are you gonna try to trust me now and stop getting down on yourself?”

Regis blinked and nodded. “Yes.”

Geralt leaned in to kiss him and he felt Regis dissolve into him. His arms wound around Geralt’s back and his mouth opened against Geralt’s. His fingers kneaded Geralt’s muscles and his thigh slipped between Geralt’s. Just like that, Geralt sank into a honeyed haze, warmth pumping through his body. He backed Regis into then tree and just leaned into him, feeling the vampire’s immense strength surrender to his movement.

He tore his mouth away, breaths coming fast between them. “Do I have you?” he asked huskily.

Regis’ eyes were wide and black as sin. “You know,” he said.

Geralt scraped his teeth up Regis’ jaw to the shell of his ear. “Tell me.”

Regis gasped, body surging. “I told you. Everything is yours.” He shivered as he spoke, as the realization sank into them both.

Geralt dropped his head to Regis’ neck, dumbfounded at the vast extent of this power given to him, sharp with the capacity for disaster. He breathed quickly into Regis’ skin, wild happiness reverberating through him. He couldn’t think of words, so he just kissed Regis’ neck and his jaw and his fine, dangerous mouth. He reveled in the feel of Regis wrapped around him. Their bodies seemed to be attempting to merge together, and he didn’t even care if he got off or not. They could stay in the cherry tree grove until the end of the world.

Ciri felt better after sword practice with Geralt, a shower and a late breakfast. She almost believed that she could stay here…for a while at least. She’d have to be on her guard, but maybe she could steal a little time with them before the next flight between worlds.

Yen was there, but she spent most of the morning on her phone on the terrace, doubtless still negotiating with Nilfgaard. She looked tense but she sent Ciri a smile when she saw her watching. Milva also watched Yen, a wary look on her face. Ciri supposed it was too much to hope that Yen was getting along with everyone. She did have a single-mindedness to her work that often overlooked the feelings of others. For Yen, somethings were simply more important than avoiding offense, and Ciri could understand that. Although she sometimes wanted to cheer while watching Yen take charge, there were also plenty of occasions when she had winced to see her foster mother blithely bulldoze over all opposition.

But for now, she was just glad to be near her, after years of avoidance. She’d wanted nothing more than to keep Yen and Geralt safe, and now that it was over, she couldn’t worry about the Lodge’s next move. She could only bask in the relief of being still and sheltered and near the ones she loved.

The house was buzzing with people coming and going about their business. The little girl was sent off to school just before the older girl arrived. She was determinedly pushing a scuffed bike up the hill with huge headphones covering her ears. She leaned her bike up against the fence. When she saw Ciri, she made the peace sign and steadily continued on the way into the house.

Triss showed up around nine, portaling in with an air of satisfaction, as she had her powers back again. Rested and refreshed, she had discarded her worn dress from the ordeal at the hotel and now wore a dark blue sweater over slim jeans with black ankle-boots. She spoke briefly with Ciri and confirmed that they both were fine. Triss had spent the night in a hideout to avoid drawing Philippa’s wrath down on Corvo Bianco, but so far, the Lodge hadn’t attempted to find her. She told Ciri she cautiously hoped Philippa would hold to the agreement, at least until she discovered that Geralt did not have a flock of higher vampires at his beck and call.

When Triss went back to try to catch Yen between calls, Milva presented Ciri with a bag of clothes she’d picked up at the big department store. They were all simple, functional pieces. The older girl—Angoulême took one look at the selection and wrinkled her nose. “Come over to my place and I find you some actual style. Or better yet, I’ll take you on a thrift store run with me.”

“Do what you want,” Milva said with a shrug. She went to the couch and starting typing out a text on her phone.

“You don’t live here?” Ciri asked Angoulême.

“Nah, me and Uncle have a place in Uptown, near the cemetery. I just hang out here a lot. We’re sort of a gang, the six of us. And Dandelion. But he lives with the governor.”

Ciri tried to digest this information. “What kind of gang?”

“Monster hunting, curse breaking, drug cartel busting…that kind of thing.”

Skinny Angoulême didn’t look like much of a fighter, but Ciri herself had been underestimated by enough people that she was cautious about drawing conclusions. “That’s great. I didn’t know Geralt was so social. He was always sort of a loner when I knew him.”

“Yeah, we kind of forced him into a family,” Angoulême said with a shrug. “Sometimes he doesn’t know what’s good for him so you have to give him a push, ya know? Like him and Uncle were back and forth forever. They weren’t making any progress, so I had to step in and pull some strings.”

“Any progress at what?” Ciri asked.

Angoulême gave her a long look. Instead of answering, she said, “That hottie in black is your mom, right?”

“Adopted,” Ciri said. “My real mom passed away.”

“Is she still wanting to get back with Geralt?”

Ciri frowned. “I have no idea. We haven’t spoken about it in years. You should ask her, if you really want to know.” She felt uncomfortable even talking about the possibility. Memories of Yen and Geralt’s loud fights burned in the back of her mind. Some days they had been so affectionate and happy, draping over each other, playfully teasing, sharing food and drinks. Those days were warm sunshine. But there were so many storms—Yen’s fanged, snide remarks, Geralt’s cold fury, and accusations and denials from both sides. They never erupted in front of her, but she could hear them through the walls at night shouting at each other. But maybe enough time had passed now that they could work things out? A part of her had hoped that they could start over fresh with more maturity and fewer pressures.

“Hmm,” Angoulême murmured with a calculating look. “Maybe I will have a chat with her.”

Around that time, Geralt showed up with the middle-aged man that Ciri recognized as the vampire. Her muscles automatically stiffened, remembering his horrific face snarling at Philippa. Her heart started to leap against her chest. Higher vampires were vicious and unstoppable.

The vampire’s eyes settled on her—dark and calm. In this form, he looked like a kindly antiques dealer who knew how to dress well. That’s what made them so dangerous—you never knew who was hiding beneath that very human mask.

“This is Regis,” Geralt said, looking uncharacteristically nervous. “Regis, this is my daughter, Ciri.”

“Emiel Regis,” the vampire said warmly, holding out a hand. “I’m so pleased to finally meet you, Ciri.”

Ciri didn’t see any other choice than to shake his hand—too cool and smooth to be real. She wondered if he could sense her fear, if he could even read her mind. No doubt he felt the tremor running through her.

“That was amazing how you freed yourself from Dijkstra,” Regis said. “And I must admit that I am fiercely curious about how these dimeritium anchors work and how you learned about this technology. When you feel recovered, please consider allowing me to interview you about them.”

“Alright,” she said uncertainly.

Yen and Triss came in from the terrace. They were all in the room now—Milva on the couch, Angoulême perched on the edge of the armchair, Regis and Geralt in the center, Yen and Triss on the far side of the room.

Yen had that set “mission face” that warned Ciri the steamroller was coming. “It’s time to have a conference,” she said firmly. “We need to discuss the next moves.”

At that moment, the house rattled loudly. Picture frames tilted and a plastic cup tipped over on the table and rolled slowly to the floor. Nothing else fell, but the brief shaking was felt by all. Ciri slipped back to vague dream fears—something terrible coming from below.

“They’re getting worse,” Regis said quietly. “I suspect this is not a natural phenomenon.”

Yen raised her eyebrows. “What are you suggesting?”

“The prophecy,” Geralt said, looking grim. “The end of the world, isn’t it?”

Ciri blinked hard, waiting for someone to laugh, but no one did.

“Not if the Unseen Elder is stopped,” Regis said.

Yen shuddered. “That creature is a myth. It must be.”

“An ancient vampire guarding the gate between worlds,” Regis said. “It certainly sounds like a myth. But it is widely accepted in vampire circles. He is prophesied to emerge from his lair and open the gate at the appointed time. The white wolf is the only one who can stop him.” He didn’t look at Geralt, but everyone else did. “Unfortunately, the battle will…prove fatal for the wolf, I believe.”

A heavy silence descended. Ciri felt a swift chill run up her spine.

“It’s not really clear who the white wolf is,” Geralt said gruffly. “But if I can stop this guy, it’s worth it. He’s bringing vampires and monsters to tear apart Toussaint, and a power surge that could destroy our world.”

“You think these earthquakes are a sign?” Triss asked. “Toussaint does have geothermal activity.”

“It did thousands of years ago,” Regis responded. “The volcanos here should be extinct. The hot spot has moved south. The prophecy says that the earth will quake with his wrath and the beasts will cover the land, driven mad by his fury. We have seen these signs. They will only grow worse.”

“If you are right, we will see the evidence increase,” Yen said firmly. “Prophecies are notoriously vague and difficult to read clearly. So far, we have phenomenon that can be explained away. I suggest that we focus on the more immediate threat of the Lodge and Philippa’s reaction to her defeat.”

Regis tipped his head to her. “Indeed. She may retaliate.”

Milva raised her hand. “Um, I don’t know much about this topic, but maybe we should ask Ciri what she experienced. Afterall, she’s been dodging these broads for years.”

They all looked to Ciri then. She laced her fingers together nervously. She didn’t like to think much about her time with the Lodge, like a prisoner on death row, trapped in her fate. So she moved straight to the point.

“They’re relentless. I’ve been running for years, shifting between worlds and places. But they always followed me. They always found me. I got so sick of it. All I wanted was to stay in a safe place with no fear. So, I started researching ways to create a void where magic couldn’t be used. I hoped I could make my own sanctuary where they couldn’t find or hurt me.”

Triss nodded, eyes shining with sympathy, and probably a healthy dose of guilt.

“For a while I was trying to figure out what spell Tissia d’Vries used at the summit to prevent magic, but there are so many different versions, and none of them seemed to work. Then about a year ago, vampires started tracking me too. I knew I’d have to go farther than a simple spell. I had to find a way to keep out sorceresses and vampires. I visited the libraries in Oxenfurt and Novigrad and conferred with underground sources. The best I could figure out was a field created by the charge of structures made of dimeritium.”

“With guiding crystals,” Regis said, eyes glowing.

She was surprised to see his recognition. “Yes. They reflect the energy of the dimeritium off each other and create a web of surface tension. It increases the intensity and concentrates the magic-blocking properties of the dimeritium in a specific field between the anchors.”

“A no-spell zone,” Angoulême supplied. “A dead spot.”

“The scholars I read called it a ‘void,’” Ciri said. “I was my only chance to create a space they couldn’t hurt me.”

“But you’d lose your own powers as well,” Yen said. “That’s a dangerous gamble.”

“I can take down any of them without magic,” Ciri replied, feeling the certainty in her core.

“You definitely can,” Geralt said with a note of pride that warmed her.

“How far can you extend this void?” Regis asked, looking thoughtful.

Ciri tried to remember the specifics in the papers she’d read. “I don’t know the exact relationship, but the more anchors you have, the stronger the void is. If you want to cover a big area, you need more anchors.”

“Dijkstra had eight around the hotel, that we could identify,” Yen supplied. “It’s quite a large building.”

“If vampires descend on Beauclair, it could be useful to a have a place to go where they’re less deadly,” Regis suggested.

“Perhaps,” Yen said. “It’s a partial refuge for those who don’t use spells. For me and my sisters, it’s a nightmare prison.”

“Yes,” Triss agreed. “But we won’t last long against higher vampires, even with magic.”

“We should be asking why vampires started chasing Ciri,” Milva pointed out. “Something is going on there. Unless the sorceresses hired them to get her, what reason do they have?”

Ciri wished she could give an explanation, but she hadn’t really had time to consider it. She couldn’t even pause to catch her breath most days. Sometimes it seemed like the whole world was trying to take her down. “They could have killed me,” she said. “I think they wanted to disable me. Maybe my elder blood is more delicious? They nearly took me out a few times. I spent a few days recovering from a gash on my side one time.”

“At a vineyard outside Beauclair?” Geralt asked, brows drawing together. “Is that where you met Hana?”

Ciri sagged. She’d done her best to bury Hana in the back of her mind. Too often she was haunted by nightmares of Hana’s terrified panting as they ran, the vampire leaning over her fallen body with a bloody smile. “She found me hiding in the wine cellar there. She brought bandages and food and kept me secret. But the vampires found me anyway. And she died just because she was near me.”

Geralt wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “I’m sorry, kid.  But don’t blame yourself for that.”

Ciri felt herself leaning into his body. “I tried to figure out some way to stop them. I followed some leads, questioned a lot of people, and found out about a peaceful vampire who lived among humans. I thought if I talked with her, she could explain what they wanted, maybe even help convince the others to leave me alone. But she wouldn’t listen. She acted like I was crazy.”

“Orianna,” Geralt said. “That’s when the alps attacked you in the alley.”

“And you nearly got killed too!” Ciri said, voice shaking with the horror of the memory. “Just because you were following me.”

“You had no control over the actions of those beasts,” Yen assured her. “This only underscores the importance of keeping you in a safe place. If you came to stay at the embassy with me…”

Ciri hesitated. She knew it made sense—she’d be surrounded by the forces of Nilfgaard and protected by Yen. But when it came to dealing with vampires, Geralt had more experience and his gang fought monsters for a living. She only worried she’d make them a target for the Lodge. But if they could build the dimeritium anchors and set them around Corvo Bianco…

“I’d rather stay here,” she told Yen. “I know you made a deal with Emhyr, and I will meet with him, but I won’t feel safe there. You want to put me up in a high tower like a princess, and hope lots of soldiers can stand against supernatural threats. Sure, nowhere is really safe with the forces that are after me, but I’m more myself in a place like this. I can breathe here.”

Geralt beamed and Regis also looked pleased. “We won’t allow anyone to harm you,” the vampire said.

Yen’s lips pressed together tightly. “I understand,” she said finally. “It’s not in your nature to be shut away. Triss and I will do our best to set up charms and spells around this property to warn you when enemies approach. I will monitor you and portal here if danger appears.”

“Helicopter mom,” Angoulême muttered. Yen ignored her.

After all the details had been ironed out, Geralt brought Regis over to talk to the sorceresses. He could see Yen pulling her features into a haughty mask—which usually meant she was scared or uncomfortable. Triss just looked plain nervous.

Regis smiled disarmingly at them. “I never had the chance to meet you both properly, I am afraid. My given name is Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy. Please call me Regis. I’m eager to make your acquaintance.”

Triss shook his hand cautiously. “Triss Merigold. Nice to meet you.” He guessed that the first sight of Regis covered in blood, lunging at Philippa in his most terrifying form probably still resonated with her.

Yen lifted her head as she shook his hand, betraying no emotion. She looked as beautiful as an ice swan. “Yennefer Vengerberg. Thank you for your assistance with Philippa. You intimidated the entire Lodge rather effectively.”

Regis lowered his head. “It was only natural for me to act to protect my friends.”

“Your pack, isn’t it?” Yen asked somewhat darkly. “I’d heard when higher vampires attach to others, they form groups that they will defend to the death, like wild wolves.”

“It is true,” Regis admitted. “I would call these people my pack. But it is not a mindless instinct that drives me. Our shared loyalty is firmly based on our experiences together and appreciation for each other. Filial bonds create a powerful adhesive between creatures of all species. You too would fight and kill for the ones you love, yes?”

Triss nodded, looking expectantly at Yen.

Yen tilted her head to the side. “You are more cultured than I expected from a higher vampire. Have you never had the urge to drink human blood?”

Geralt bit the inside of his cheek.

“Yes,” Regis said. “In all honesty, I indulged monstrously in blood-drinking in my youth. It is abhorrent to think of who I was at that regrettable time. But I have abstained for more than three centuries now and I hope to save many more lives than I took.”

“Regis is a healer,” Geralt asserted. “He’s patched me up many times. And the others too. He’s protected and rescued us again and again. He once saved me and Ciri from some alps, even though it turned other vampires against him.”

“What a dramatic turn,” Yen said with a sharp edge in her voice. “I hope there is never another drastic change in his mentality. We can only pray that he keeps to his current benevolent path.”

“Yen,” Geralt said warningly.

Regis laced his fingers together. “I hope the same,” he said to Yen, without any malice. “I made a pact with another higher vampire that if I ever returned to my addiction, he would kill me without hesitation. I would do the same for him. Although we are estranged now, I have no doubt that he would fulfill his bargain if I went astray.”

Triss’ eyes widened.

Yen’s mouth twitched. “Very dramatic. An effective deterrent, I suppose.” She looked away for a moment, then turned her eyes back to Regis. “You are a useful ally; I don’t deny that. You’ll understand my wariness toward vampires in general. But I’m grateful that you’re looking out for Geralt and Ciri.”

Regis smiled gently. “I must say the same to you. I can rest easier knowing that a powerful sorceress is concerned with their safety.”

“Hey, me and Ciri aren’t exactly helpless, you know,” Geralt grumbled.

“Of course,” Regis said. “We all protect and help each other. Which leads me to our request. Geralt wishes to regain his lost memories and he thinks you two and Ciri can assist him with that.”

“Me?” Triss said, surprised.

“I was nearly out of my mind when Philippa did the procedure,” Yen said. “You saw it all, Triss.”

“I wasn’t in the clearest mental state myself,” Triss admitted. “But you were watching it happen to Geralt like you were memorizing each step.”

“We’ll work it out together,” Yen said. “Get Ciri and find us a quiet place to work.”

Within fifteen minutes, Geralt found himself shut in his bedroom with Ciri, Triss, Yen, and Regis. It was a grouping he hadn’t imagined having there.

Geralt sat on the bed and the two sorceresses stood on either side of him. Triss murmured a spell and Yen just looked at him, eyes narrowed with concentration.

Regis was shaking up something in a flask. When he removed the stopper, Geralt smelled a familiar scent, bringing back memories of a night on the roof garden. He’d been so confused and clueless then, and so aware of Regis’ mysterious but somehow comforting presence.

“It will light up the pathways in him that have been affected by magic,” Regis told the women. “You can see where the seals are in his brain.”

Yen’s eyebrows raised. Triss looked relieved.

Ciri sat cross-legged on the floor and sighed to herself. He guessed it probably wasn’t the most fun for her to have her power funneled into someone else’s spell.

“It won’t hurt you, right?” he asked her.

She shook her head. “It’s just, the last few times this happened weren’t in the best circumstances. But I want to do this for you.”

Geralt tipped back the potion Regis gave him, wincing at the sharp taste. He felt the cool tendrils spreading from his belly up his throat and branching out through his body.

“Fascinating,” Yen said softly, seeing something he couldn’t. “Look at all the little orange lights. There are so many of them.”

“This could take a while,” Triss said. “I think we have to untangle the seals like knots. I saw Philippa winding and tying them.”

“Or I could just cut them,” Yen said, clasping her hands together.

“Perhaps the safer option would be to apply a low pulse of power to loosen the seal; then it may unwind easily,” Regis suggested. “Of course, you ladies are the experts.”

“Don’t hurt Geralt,” Ciri said vehemently.

“I’m afraid it will be an uncomfortable experience any way we proceed,” Regis warned. He laid a hand of Geralt’s shoulder. “Are you certain you wish to do this?”

“Yeah,” Geralt said, mouth a little dry. “I want to know what I’ve been missing.”

“Then let’s get started,” Yen said. She sat on the bed next to Geralt and Ciri crawled up to sit at her feet. Yen put a hand gently on Ciri’s head. Then Yen touched Geralt’s head, fingers pushing through his hair to graze his scalp. For a minute, he was lit up with her scent and the intimacy of her touch, longing to sink into it, into her.

Then a prick like the point of a needle nipped inside his head. He jolted reflexively and Yen hissed at him to stay still. A slithering, slipping feeling, then another sharp jab. He grimaced and tried not to move. Again the wriggling sensation of something moving inside his brain.

Regis said, “Perhaps we can use a sedative.”

“He has to be alert,” Triss explained apologetically. “And no painkiller is going to work on this kind of thing.”

Ciri’s eyes had drifted closed as well and there was a faint green glow radiating from her that he hadn’t noticed before.

Another thin stab of pain, this one more like an iron nail than a pin. And all the other pricked places in his brain still throbbed and ached. He bit his lip. “I’m fine,” he told Regis, but his voice sounded thin in his own ears.

Regis knelt before Geralt and covered Geralt’s left hand with both of his. “Think of all the beautiful things you’ll uncover.”

Another jab, another slimy shiver. Geralt breathed out slowly. He’d prefer getting clawed across the ribs by a werewolf to this constant needling pain slowly spreading and increasing. It will be worth it, he told himself.

“That’s right,” Regis said. “Deep breaths. Center yourself. You’ve endured much worse.”

Geralt focused on the rhythm of his lungs, trying to force calm into his body. His gaze twitched toward Yen, to try to get some idea of the progress, but she appeared to be in a kind of trance or deep concentration. Her eyes were closed, but he could see them moving under her lids. Her fingers moved incrementally against the roots of his hair. Every minute another tiny stab of pain lit up the nerves under his skull. His head was turning into a stinging mass of tiny biting insects.

“Look at me,” Regis said softly, rubbing his hands. “This is nothing. A passing discomfort. Look in my eyes.”

“Could use some of that White Gull right now,” Geralt said. He took himself back to those dreamy, strange days in Regis’ bed where the walls sprouted living vines, where he’d first realized the strength of his need for Regis. Staring into Regis’ black eyes now, he was reminded again of the magnetic pull of a dying star, drawing him deep. The needles in his brain seemed very far away. He wasn’t sure how long he stayed in that place, swaying in the darkness. Half of him was still in the room, seated between Yen and Triss with Regis kneeling before him and Ciri sitting by Yen’s feet. The walls around them seemed to have a pale green glow.

“Just a little longer,” Triss said quietly. “Yen’s doing her best. She’s actually working much faster than Philippa did.” Her words had a strange echo for Geralt. He looked away from Regis’ eyes with some effort and felt the pain come back into his awareness, though not as deafening as before.

And then he remembered. He’d been here before, sitting like this, chained to a wrought iron chair, cold and weary and resigned. A sorceresses’ fingers were on his head and the pin-stabs of pain quickly became numb spots, blank spaces. He had looked deeply into Yen’s eyes then, fearing to lose her along with Ciri, who was quickly becoming a fuzzy, indistinct figure in his past. Yen’s face, so grimly set, had made him think, It’s not over. We’ll find a way to reverse this. But then the cold, suffocating tide of hopelessness had covered him. How could you regain something you didn’t know you’d lost?

Tears burned at the corners of his eyes. Ciri. He looked down at her, legs crossed over each other, hands on her knees, feeding her power into Yen. Back then, she’d said fiercely, “It’s a small sacrifice to trade against death. I’d cut off my own head to keep you alive. Do this for me.” Looking into her pale, brave face, he’d given up, given in, agreed to let them strip his mind.

So much lost… Ciri’s childhood freckles sprinkling her round cheeks. Her pouts when she had to do schoolwork instead of running the obstacle course. Her squeals of laughter when they broke into an impromptu water fight on a hot summer day. Her wide, imperious smile when she mastered a difficult sword routine or spell—or the time she’d gotten her learner’s permit and parallel parked perfectly for the first time. Her silence when she knew he and Yen had been fighting. Her thin, strong arms flying to close around him whenever he came home, greeting him with an almost desperate force.

“Ciri,” he whispered.

“Don’t disturb her,” Triss warned.

The prickling pain was lessening, just the occasional jab here and there. When Yen finally sighed deeply and pulled her hand away, the relief in the room was palpable.

“Check him for me, Triss,” Yen said hoarsely. “I think I got everything.”

Triss’ fingers brushed his scalp. She closed her eyes for a long minute, then opened them, nodding. “That looks like all of it.”

Her slow, soft smile brought her back to him. “Triss, I know you,” Geralt said, remembering. Of course, she was Yen’s best friend, until… “Oh,” he choked, startled by the explicit images flying at him. “We…”

Triss went bright pink. “Only once! Well, just one night anyway.” Her guilty eyes flew to Yen’s face.

But Yen just looked tired. “It was ages ago,” she said. “We hashed it all out a thousand times and I don’t have the energy to do it again. I don’t know why Philippa decided to make us forget Triss, though.”

“She didn’t want you both to have any connection to the Lodge,” Triss explained. “She worried you might try to turn me against her.”

Regis got to his feet and so did Ciri, both looking hopefully at Geralt.

“How is the pain?” Regis asked.

“Fading slowly,” Geralt said with a smile. “Thanks for hypnotizing me there.”

Ciri bit her lip. “Do you remember now?”

“Yeah,” he breathed, eyes running over her face to imprint it solidly forever. His voice thinned and cracked. “I missed you, Ciri.”

Her face scrunched up with emotion and her hands curled at her sides. Geralt moved to hug her hard. She hadn’t changed so much since the last time he’d known her—just a little thinner and bonier. He’d have to fatten her up with chili and burgers. “I missed you, even when I didn’t know I missed you. There was always an empty spot here.”

He hugged her for a long time, even after everyone else left the room. He held her close, absorbing her tears, and shallow sobs. How long had she been running, so alone in a world determined to hunt her down? She’d lost everything, but she kept fighting. His girl, always.

“Are you going to die?” she said thickly into his shoulder. “Is the prophecy true?”

He breathed out slowly. “I don’t know. Maybe. Let’s just live while we can. I’m so happy right now, I don’t care if the world ends.”

She gave a broken laugh. “I care. And I’m going to take out this unseen vampire king before he can do anything to you. Count on it.”

“Okay,” he said, smiling. “We’ll figure something out.”

Anna Henrietta, governor of Toussaint, lingered in the ladies’ rest room. It was not a bad place to hide away from the world with its spotless, gleaming sinks and tile, the flower arrangements reflected in the silver mirrors and the array of scented products in expensive-looking jars. It even had a small divan to rest on.

But she couldn’t rest. She could only stand and stare at her reflection in the mirror, leaning on the spotless counter. Her hair was oily and flat, her makeup hastily applied, and the gray crescents under her eyes could not be concealed with any layers of foundation.

She would exit the room and immediately be sucked into a vortex of crises—freak lighting storms setting forest fires in early spring, hundreds of dead fish floating in the lake, earthquakes shaking the province with increasing frequency, and all manner of strange beasts appearing to wound and kill the citizens of her land. Half of the vineyards were shut down with the appearance of ranging monstrosities that ran on four legs and evil carnivorous plants that spit burning darts. Even the witcher and his companions wouldn’t be able to make a dent in the monster population at the rate it was rising.

Anna Henrietta sighed deeply, then raised her eyes to stare at herself. She would not quail. She would not give up. The people needed her protection. She would implore Emhyr to send Nilfgaardian forces into the streets and fields to fight the menace there. As for the natural disasters…

Another quake shook the building, jolting the little jars around the sinks. Her hands gripped the counter, whitening.

Then a flash of black, like a dark mist in the corner of her eye. But nothing showed in the mirror. Her heart jumped in her throat. She sensed someone behind her, heard a sigh, but no one was there. Slowly, she turned, muscles rigid.

It was her sister’s vampire, Dettlaff. Heavy eyes and a stern mouth. He studied her for a moment. “You must act. Contact the witcher. Arrange a meeting with his people. The end is coming, and we do not wish to see this world destroyed.”

Anna opened her mouth, but no words came out. At last she choked, “Syanna…”

“She waits for you,” Dettlaff said, clearly impatient. “Gather your forces. The greatest battle for your species’ existence is days away.”

He dissolved into black mist once more and swept out of the room.

Chapter Text

By the time they’d made it through a rowdy lunch at Corvo Bianco—eight adults all scrambling to make sandwiches and get a portion of the wine—Geralt’s headache had faded away. Yen seemed to regain some energy after a turkey-swiss and a tall glass of red.

Milva didn’t look very happy to see her bottles of Erveluce and Pomino drained so quickly, but she made sure that everyone got enough to eat. Another harsher earthquake sloshed the wine in their glasses and made everyone freeze for a moment, but it didn’t last long.

Regis kept checking in on Geralt, making sure that he didn’t have any lingering effects from regaining his memories. Truthfully, Geralt didn’t feel any different from before, except he could now pull up images and scenes from the past that he couldn’t before (both a blessing and a curse). He and Yen both couldn’t help but stay close to Ciri, soaking up her face and her voice. It felt like she’d disappear again in the next moment if they looked away.

When Geralt’s phone buzzed with a call from Dandelion, it hit him how much had happened in the two days since their little house-warming party.

“Geralt!” Dandelion’s voice lacked its usual playful bounce. “Have you been watching the news?”

“No,” Geralt admitted. “We’ve been kind of busy here. You’ll never believe what’s been happening.”

“I’m eagerly anticipating your update. But much has transpired in the city as well. We are overwhelmed with attacks and disasters. The governor wishes to meet with you and the others to discuss a plan of action.”

Geralt’s eyebrows went up. “When?”

“As soon as you can get here. Shall we say three o’clock, to give everyone time to assemble?”

Geralt thought about it. “Eithné gets out of school at two-thirty.”

“Bring her along. We’ll arrange for someone to look after her during the meeting.”

“Okay,” Geralt said, eyes jerking to Yen. She’d stood up abruptly and was moving to the window. “We’ll see you then. Don’t be surprised if I show up with a few new faces.”

Triss joined Yen at the window, both frowning at the landscape beyond.

Geralt quickly ended the call. He heard Ciri say, “What’s up?”

“Something is approaching.” Yen drew back. “Geralt, get your silver.”

A pair of dark shapes moved among the trellises of the vineyard, then Geralt glimpsed a triangular face stretching to two wide, short horns. Fleders out in the open, in broad daylight.

“Allow me to handle this,” Regis said firmly. He smoked out of the house with a speed that left the rest of them reeling.

Ciri jerked backward automatically, hand going for a weapon.

“Don’t worry,” Geralt said. “If that’s all it is, he’ll mop them up.”

Everyone crowded around the window to watch as the fleders burst out of the vineyard and ran down the hill, with Regis following at a leisurely pace. He waited until they had almost faded away into the long grasses of the field, before streaking toward them and slicing them apart in movements too fast to see.

“So cool,” Angoulême breathed.

When Regis returned to the house and washed the dark blood off his hands, he said. “I thought it was best to finish them some distance from the grounds so as not to have to deal with cleanup.”

“Yeah,” Geralt agreed. “But what the hell were they doing out here in the middle of the day?”

“They are too primitive for me to communicate with and question,” Regis said. “My presence was intimidating enough to frighten them away. I can only guess that they are part of the wave of monsters appearing in the area at this time. These creatures don’t seem to be following their usual habits of hiding away from humans. Instead, their typical survival instinct seemed to be overridden by mindless aggression…at least until they met a higher vampire.”

“Dandelion said there have been more attacks,” Geralt told Regis the others. “He wants us to meet with Anna Henrietta’s people to work out a response plan.”

Milva nodded. “Cahir said they’ve been getting more and more reports of these kinds of ‘unidentified predators’ but he didn’t know it had any relevance. I haven’t told about this whole prophecy for the apocalypse.”

“Which we do not know is accurate,” Yen countered, just before another earthquake rattled all the windows in the house.

“Seems like it might be,” Angoulême said dryly. “Forget about plans. Let’s get fucked up and party like it’s the end of the world.” She waved one of the empty wine bottles.

“We should go see the governor,” Milva said, taking the bottle out of her hands. “If this is real, we’ve got to fight it. My little girl deserves a better future than a post-vampire-apocalypse hellscape.”

Triss and Yen stayed at Corvo Bianco to set up wards and spells to prevent further attacks while the rest of them went to the meeting at the governor’s mansion, which meant taking two cars with Eithné and her backpack squished happily between Angoulême and Ciri. Milva called Cahir and arranged for him to take time off work and join them there.

They passed the security gates and drove up the long driveway. Geralt noticed extra security guards were walking the grounds. At the main entrance, they met big, bald, Damien de la Tour, the head of security himself. He raised his eyebrows at the number of people in their group, but after radioing the governor, he escorted them through.

Just inside the doors of the mansion, Vivienne met them and offered to take Eithné on a personal tour of the governor’s riding stables to meet all her horses. Eithné hopped with joy.

Dandelion came down the hall to find them, looking harried. But he met Ciri with genuine warmth and welcome. “I’m sorry our first acquaintance must take place among such terrible circumstances,” he told her. “Let us hope it will soon be resolved quickly so we may return to happier times.”

He turned to the others. “Please follow me. We have quite the company here today.” He led them a short ways into a set of double door that opened into a big event room. Damien followed them in like a sheep dog minding the herd.

The expansive room had a gleaming hardwood floor below a glittering chandelier with hundreds of glass crystals. Long windows were covered in green velvet curtains, slightly parted to let in wide beams of light. The emptiness was emphasized by a dozen or so chairs arranged in a circle in the middle of the floor.

As Geralt entered close behind Dandelion with Regis at his side and Milva at his back, his eyes lighted on a few familiar faces—Anna Henrietta looking tired and drawn in a rumpled gray suit, Syanna disguised in a blond wig and heavy makeup, Dettlaff glowering like his life depended on it, and Emhyr var Emreis seated a little apart, flanked by body guards and looking as arrogant and inscrutable as ever.

A shock of surprise and fear ran through Geralt. Milva, and Cahir were clearly startled at the sight of Syanna and the vampire, who had seemed prepared to kill them at their last meeting. Regis also became very still and silent when he saw Dettlaff was there.

Emhyr’s gaze rolled over them with a hint of satisfaction. His eyes stopped briefly on Cahir before they settled on Ciri, who stiffened visibly. “Thank you for finally bringing my daughter to me. I had begun to imagine that I’ve have to take a battalion to your vineyard home to see her again.”

Geralt gritted his teeth. “She was going to see you when she was ready. No need for battalions. Or surprises.”

“We will speak of her duties later,” Emhyr declared. “Now I am interested in discussing the fate of Toussaint. Please take a seat.”

They all sat with some reluctance. Geralt faced Anna Henrietta, but he was studying Dettlaff out of the corner of his eye, trying to discern what the higher vampire was thinking. At the same time, he had his defenses up around Emhyr. It was easy to forget that Toussaint was technically a territory of Nilfgaard. Toussaint had its own military and currency and a local government that didn’t seem to involve Nilfgaard. But clearly Emhyr was pulling the strings here. Everyone was following his lead.

“We are overwhelmed with disasters,” Anna Henrietta said. “Mr. Dettlaff believes that a vampire leader is the reason for the growing cloud of calamities.”

Dettlaff wore a grudging expression, but he spoke up when prompted. “As some of you know, the vampires of Toussaint are expecting the rise of the Unseen Elder, a vampire so old and powerful that none can stand against him. His emergence from exile is the cause of the troubles we see now. The gate between worlds will soon open with great violence.”

“But not all the vampires want to follow the Unseen Elder,” Syanna said quickly. “We know many who are happy living as they are. They don’t want to see the humans slaughtered by the thousands to open the gate. They don’t want to see this world cracked and broken.”

Dandelion chuckled nervously. “If that could be avoided…”

“But none can stand against him,” Emhyr repeated dryly. “What then do you suggest?” He raked his gaze over all of them. “I assume bullets have no effect on creatures such as these?”

“Silver bullets can hurt and kill some vampires,” Geralt said. “I recommend that your guys and the city police start stockpiling silver. They’re not fond of fire either.” He paused. “But with the Unseen Elder, I don’t know if anything can slow him down.” He looked to Regis for confirmation.

Regis nodded with a grim look. “Unfortunately, the chance that you could shoot or burn the elder before he slices your throat open is quite small. According to the legends, he moves like the wind and can paralyze enemies with his mind. He hates this world. All interaction with others pains him physically. The lives of others have no value to him and he’d happily destroy this sphere as he leaves it.”

“Sounds like some guys I know online,” Angoulême said, leaning back. “I still say we throw a big party.”

Milva sighed. “So, these earthquakes and monster attacks are going to keep getting worse until we stop this guy? Seems like we have to find a way to finish him quickly, or protect people until we can.”

“He’s hidden away from the world,” Dettlaff said. “No vampire can say where. He craves complete isolation. But he must emerge to open the gate. Only then will we find him.”

“On the night of the full moon,” Regis said with an air of realization. “A holy day for vampires.”

“How poetic,” Emhyr said, sounding darkly amused. “And only three days away.”

Anna Henrietta shot him an alarmed look. “We have no time to prepare! We must evacuate the city.”

“And where do you plan to relocate three hundred thousand people?” Emhyr asked. “The traffic alone would block the roads for days.”

“It will have to be a siege,” Milva said, looking to Cahir. “We set up a perimeter, herd everyone into the city center and surround them with troops armed with silver.”

“Don’t forget that lots of vampires can fly,” Ciri pointed out. “Especially on full moon nights. They can change into bats.”

“Bats?” Dandelion yelped.

Geralt nodded. “They can also smoke through any barriers.”

“Not if we use a dimeritium void,” Regis said slowly. “Ciri, how quickly do you think we can construct anchors?”

Ciri’s face scrunched with thought. “With Dijkstra’s guys helping me, it took about a week. But we were still figuring out how to make them then. I bet we could do it faster, now that I know.” She bit her lip. “Of course, if you need a perimeter for hundreds of thousands of people…that’s going to be a lot of anchors.”

“I will set up teams to start construction under your guidance,” Emhyr declared. “We will create as many of these structures as we can while systematically evacuating the outskirts of the city to reduce the population. I assume this ‘void’ will deflect monsters?”

“It will reduce some of their powers,” Geralt explained. “The deadliest vampires won’t be as dangerous. But we’ll still need people to take them out once they’re inside the void.”

“It’s impossible to shelter and provide for such a large number of people packed into a small space,” Damien pointed out. “We have to find a way to stop this battle before it is prolonged.”

“That’s my job,” Geralt said. “Let me handle this elder guy.”

Anna Henrietta blinked at him. “Alone?”

“Yeah,” Geralt said, at the same time several others in the room said, “No.” Ciri was the most vehement, but Milva, Angoulême, and Regis were all pretty loud too. Dandelion said it like an anguished protest.

“We’ll work it out,” Geralt muttered.

Afterwards, they broke into smaller groups to discuss logistics. Ciri and Regis were discussing the construction of the anchors. Geralt was talking to Damien and Cahir about how to make silver bullets and possibly create a silver finish on other weapons. He couldn’t tell what Milva and Angoulême were discussing with Dandelion, but he hoped it wasn’t a big party.

Emhyr broke off his conversation with Anna Henrietta and looked toward Geralt’s group, mouth twisting into a half smile. “Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach. I wish to speak with you.”

Beside Geralt, Cahir seemed to draw into himself. Then he straightened, held his head high and walked to Emhyr.

Geralt strained his ears, but he couldn’t quite hear what they were talking about. It sounded like Cahir’s family. He snorted to himself. Cahir, who always protested that he wasn’t Nilfgaardian seemed to know the Prime Minister of Nilfgaard quite well.

Geralt’s eyes caught Dettlaff’s where he sat next to Syanna. His gaze was as withering as always. Geralt straightened his shoulders and moved toward him.

“Hey,” he said meeting Dettlaff’s glare without blinking. “Walk and talk with me.”

“We have nothing to discuss,” Dettlaff grumbled.

Syanna’s attention flickered to them but she didn’t say anything.

Geralt gestured with his head to where Regis stood, still conferring with Ciri.

Dettlaff’s lips tightened and he stood. “Quickly then.”

They moved toward the back of the room where the yellowed photos of celebrations past hung in their thick black frames. There were solstice feasts and spring balls. The same cycle of seasons in endless rotation as styles changes and faces aged.

“You know I may not be around much longer,” Geralt said, “especially since I gotta face off against this Unseen asshole.”

“Yes,” Dettlaff murmured. His long fingernails curled into his palms. “You will certainly not survive a fight with him.”

“Then, stop punishing Regis for siding with me,” Geralt demanded. “Yeah, I’m a witcher, but I’m no threat to him or you or any other higher vampire. And I’m probably not gonna be here to bother you.”

Dettlaff’s mouth curled with bitterness. “Do you think Emiel will stand by while you face the Unseen Elder? No, he will throw himself into hell to save you. I do not wish to lose my friend that way. But it will be worse if he survives; you do not know how he will suffer after your death. Losing a mate is devastating for a vampire. You have cursed him to early death or a life of agony.”

Geralt sucked in a harsh breath. He hadn’t thought of it that way. “I don’t know if he considers us mates, but that’s his choice. And it was your choice too. You decided to love a human, even knowing how short her life would be compared to yours. How much longer do you think your girl will be around?”

“Not long enough,” Dettlaff admitted. “It’s true, when I met her, I allowed my emotions to overrule my reason. I will face her eventual mortality, after many years, I hope. But Emiel’s attachment to you is different. I do not wish for my friend to have a brief moment of happiness followed by crushing loss. Can you understand this?”

“Yeah,” Geralt said. “I’m glad you want the best for him. But there’s nothing I can do about what happens to me…or him. If these are our last days, so be it.” Suddenly the knowledge of what was coming weighed down on him like a wet sandbag. He steadied himself and stared Dettlaff in the eye. “Whether we live or die, I think he’ll need a friend before the end. If I knew you were by his side, I’d feel a lot better about his future.”

Dettlaff’s brows drew together and he looked away sharply. “He may not wish to speak to me again.”

Geralt thought of the golden moth pin and how tightly Regis had held it. “I’m pretty sure he does.”

Milva caught Cahir after Emhyr moved away from him to his next target: Ciri.

“So what was up with you and Emperor Em?” Milva asked Cahir. “I didn’t know if I should bust in and rescue you.”

Cahir shook his head, flushing a little. Well, I told you all I’m from Vicovaria…”

“Yup, big family, pretty well-off,” Milva said. “You said you didn’t want to get into local politics so you moved to Toussaint for police academy.”

“Well, I did get involved in politics first,” Cahir said begrudgingly. “My dad is a sort of high-ranking diplomat and he got me a position in Nilfgaardian Intelligence. It seemed like a dream job, everything I’d prepared and studied for.”

“But then they ordered you to kill a kid.”

“What? No!” He looked horrified at the thought.

She shrugged. “Well, that’s how it always goes in movies.”

Cahir sighed. “I was ordered to do some things that went against my conscience—usually stirring up aggressions and unrest in places to make them vulnerable, or to put pressure on local leaders. I just got tired of all the underhanded stuff. I wanted to feel like I was doing real and clear good.”

“So, you decided to join the police, an organization that never does anything wrong.”

Frowning, Cahir shook his head. “I tried to do the right thing, anyway. I can’t claim that I’ve always succeeded. I know my parents are disgusted that I’m not the head of Nilfgaardian Intelligence at this point. I don’t get invitations to the family celebrations any more. But I made my life here.”

Milva set a hand on his shoulder. “I’m super glad you did.” She glanced toward Emhyr who was speaking to Ciri with the same cold, level expression. “If the Prime Minister recognizes you, you must have had some rank.”

“I ran some missions for him,” he said cautiously.

“I’m surprised he let you go so easily,” she murmured. “I’ve heard Emhyr is totally ruthless when it comes to secrets.”

 “Yeah,” Cahir breathed. “You don’t know how extensive Nilfgaard’s network goes. He has people watching anyone of any consequence. If I sneezed in the wrong direction, he’d know. But I don’t have any motivation to betray Nilfgaard, so I try not to worry about it.”

Her fingers squeezed his shoulder. “Mmm, makes me wish I was a counter spy so I could seduce those secrets out of you,” she purred. “But actually, I really don’t care what Nilfgaard’s up to. I just want to lure you into my bed.”

“I could be lured,” he said, grinning. “I’m very lurable.”

Geralt watched Ciri talk with Emhyr and tried not to look too threatening or defensive. He knew Emhyr was going to sweep her off to some palace and try to mold her into a powerful politician the first chance he got. But Ciri wasn’t a child any more. She had to make her own choices without Geralt hovering and blustering protectively.

Well, he knew that in theory anyway. He still wanted to march in and declare that he was her real dad. That probably wouldn’t go well.

He tried to distract himself with happier thoughts. At least Dettlaff and Regis seemed to be getting along again, after Dettlaff made the first move. They stood by one of the long windows, talking quietly. Their faces were turned away from him, but Regis seemed to have lost much of the tension in his body.

Syanna was also watching them with a look of relief. Geralt had almost forgotten that she was Regis’ friend too, in a way. When her tunnel vision of vengeance wasn’t narrowed in, she probably wasn’t a completely terrible person. He still wasn’t about to let her off the hook for shooting Dandelion, though.

He heard a movement behind him and Angoulême patted him on the back. “Good job, Gramps. I would have talked some sense into him myself if you hadn’t jumped in there. Saved me the effort. Plus it probably means more coming from the guy he tried to kill.”

Geralt huffed. “Don’t remind me. If Regis hadn’t been there, we’d all be dead.”

She shook her head. “Nah, he really only wanted to off you. Maybe scare the others. You’re the one who bewitched Uncle, after all, made him reckless enough to kill other vampires and put himself in danger. It must have really freaked out Dett.”

“Yeah,” Geralt said. “I can see that now. I’m glad we all came to an understanding.”

“Apocalypses tend to do that—bring people together.” She eyed him hopefully. “Which means it’s a great time for a fucking awesome party. Like a massive no-holds blowout with a couple kegs and a DJ. Think about it.”

He narrowed his eyes. “It’s not happening Angoulême.”

Ciri broke off from her talk with Emhyr and walked toward Geralt. Angoulême slipped away discreetly, but he knew she’d stay in eavesdropping distance.

Ciri squared her shoulders. “Well, it looks like I won’t be seeing a lot of you in the next few days. We really have to finish these anchors. Regis is going to be helping me. You can come visit us and see what we’re doing.”

The thought of Regis and Ciri being around dimeritium fields only made unease twist in Geralt’s stomach. “Fine,” he said grudgingly. “But I expect you to visit me too and stay at Corvo Bianco at nights, if you can. You and Regis can both travel at express train speeds, so you have no excuses not to zip up the hill to my place.”

She smiled. “Of course. It’s only a few days, you know.”

“Yeah, I know.” His throat tightened but it wasn’t the time to have a personal crisis.

The first day dissolved into a flurry of preparations. With a few calls, Emhyr had helicopters and planes delivering materials, even rare metals like orichalcium and weird stuff that Geralt had never heard. What the hell were atiliaphorin fuses? Meanwhile Cahir had started prepping the police and the Nilfgaardian forces on tactics for fighting vampires and other monsters. Geralt and Milva spent their days taking down the worst offenders—bilge hags attacking botany students, harpies nesting on the museum roof, and giant centipedes wrecking the roads.

When Geralt visited the warehouse, making his way through the levels of security, he found Regis busy infusing crystals different colored baths while Ciri inspected some silvery coils that the technicians were working on. They had set up a complex system seemingly overnight with neat production lines of men and women constructing the various shining pieces of the anchor. Diagrams were stretched over display boards, fuzzy with enlargements. Ciri’s looping handwriting scrawled over them with arrows and notes explaining different parts. She’d never been very interested in science, Geralt thought, remembering once finding her chemistry textbook wedged behind her dresser. But she had a sharp mind, and he supposed that fleeing from supernatural forces for years provided her with the incentive to build complicated devices from scratch.

Regis said, “It’s quite impressive, isn’t it? We estimate we can construct about sixty devices before the night of the full moon. Of course, it will also take some time to set them up and coordinate their energy.”

Geralt nodded. “It doesn’t bother you to hang out around dimertium?”

“No, it’s not the dimeritium itself that inhibits my abilities, but the combination of elements in the anchors working together, creating a powerful energy block.”

“Yen doesn’t like our plan very much,” Geralt said. “She feels like she’ll be useless inside the void and vulnerable outside of it.”

“I assumed she would be going with you,” Regis said. “When you track the Unseen Elder, she will doubtless wish to accompany you.”

“Maybe,” Geralt said, mind grating as it ran through the different outcomes. “I don’t want anyone with me. The prophecy says I’m the one who can stop him. No one else should risk their neck.”

Regis seemed to deflate as he exhaled. “That’s not necessarily true. You said we would discuss responsibilities, and yet we haven’t. I can’t bear to watch you leave, knowing you are going to face him.”

“Can you bear to watch me die?” Geralt tried to soften the words, but they still fell like lead. “Never mind. We’ll figure something out later. You have work to do now. Let’s talk about it tonight.”

Ciri spent her nights at Corvo Bianco, although sometimes she arrived rather late. Angoulême and Regis also seemed to have taken to crashing there, all of them clearly wanting to spend the last few days together before the end. It was hard to sleep with the regular rattling of earthquakes gradually increasing in frequency and intensity. Over time, they became almost mundane and Eithné, who had taken to shouting “Earthquake!” every time one happened, eventually ignored them.

So far none had been powerful enough to damage the house’s foundations. Despite its age, it was solidly built. They did hear reports of signs falling and walls cracking in the city. The population seemed braced for disaster and some had already left the planned evacuation of the suburbs on the reports that they were in danger of landslides.

Geralt grimly went about his business. He still hadn’t quite given himself time to absorb his fate. Whenever the cold panic of facing his death rose up in him, he pushed it down. No time for that. There was a battle coming and all he could think about was the fight.

At night, he made the most of his brief time with Regis, enjoying him in every way possible. Even after their long, draining days, they feasted on each other. Geralt lay Regis out and explored every part of him, in the ghostly light of the waxing moon. He was slim and strong and perfect from his wavy silver-streaked hair to his smooth, pale feet.

He worked his way down from Regis’ slick, hungry mouth, under his jaw to the ridges of his throat and the hollow between his collar bones. Lifting up, he looked at the springy patch of hair on Regis’ chest and wound his fingers into it, tugging and kneading into it. His mouth dropped to a dark nipple, licking it to a tight nub. Regis breathed out a soft moan and wrapped one hand over the back of Geralt’s neck. The points of his nails in the vulnerable skin there seemed to be lighting up all the arousal pathways in Geralt’s brain. He bit at the skin of Regis’ chest and felt Regis startle against him. His hand tightened on Geralt’s neck, nails pressing deeper, sharper.

Quickly, Geralt sucked his way down Regis’ belly, then a quick detour to the point his hip and the soft skin inside his thigh. He bit the flesh there, quick and sharp.

Regis jolted under him gasping. Then he chuckled darkly and kneaded his fingers into Geralt’s neck. “You lead me to madness.”

Geralt licked the bite, tongue tracing the growing welt there. Then he moved upward and went for the prize. When Geralt’s mouth closed around him, Regis sighed deeply and his entire body seemed to sink down into the mattress. His hand slid up Geralt’s neck to knead his scalp, tangling through his hair. Geralt sucked slowly, enjoying the scrape of his fingernails. Then he hollowed of out his cheeks, using his hand to stroke the base.

“Witcher,” Regis said, deep and rich. And the dark pleasure in his voice pulsed back into Geralt like warm syrup in his veins. A muffled moan rolled out of Geralt.

Regis hissed, hips twitching upward, then his fingers tugged at Geralt’s hair, bringing his head up.

“What?” Geralt said breathlessly, still heady with desire.

“Here,” Regis commanded, pulling him upward.

Geralt crawled up over his body and settled into Regis, pressing their skin together. He kissed Regis’ open mouth, sucked on his tongue. Their teeth scraped together. Their hips rocked together, finding a perfect pressure of sweat-slicked muscle.

Regis’ hands sliding down to Geralt’s ass pushed them even closer. Geralt groaned a curse into his mouth and rocked harder against him. It seemed impossible, but his release coiled up tighter and tighter, so close to the surface. It crushed him, pressing him into Regis in bucking waves. Regis cried out, his voice muffled by Geralt’s mouth. He shook beneath Geralt, shudders running through them both.

Afterward some breathless recovery time, holding each other close, Regis said quietly, “You can’t go without me. If I must watch you die, it will be knowing that I did everything I could to stop it.”

“And if you die first?” Geralt demanded hotly. “This is the uber vampire we’re talking about. Your regeneration ability doesn’t apply here.”

“Then I die with you,” Regis answered without any hesitation. “I have lived a very long time. There is nothing else for me here.”

“What about protecting the others?” Geralt countered, chest aching. “I want to go find him, knowing that you’ll be around to look after my people…especially Dandelion, because obviously he has zero common sense.”

Regis made a strained sound. “You don’t realize what you are asking of me.”

“I’m asking you to live,” Geralt answered. “I know it will be hard. But you won’t be the first higher vampire to lose a companion. You’ll find someone else in time, I’m sure of it.”

“Now you are the one belittling my commitment,” Regis said sharply. “I can’t move on like humans do. Time moves differently for us. We don’t adapt like you.”

Geralt didn’t know what to do. He combed his fingers through Regis’ hair, feeling the strands cling to his calluses. “You shouldn’t have picked me, you know.” It was a sad, weak protest.

“I tried not to,” Regis murmured, nuzzling against Geralt’s neck. “Something in you called to me from the first, like a curiosity hidden on an old shelf. Too often I find myself consumed by things that intrigue me. With you, I believed I was examining a phenomenon from a safe distance, when in reality I was opening myself to complete possession. It is a bittersweet realization, yes?”

“Yes,” Geralt agreed, wrenched and wanting. “Then, I can’t ask you to go or stay. Just…let’s not talk about it now.” He closed his burning eyes. “Make me forget about everything, for tonight.”

Sometime during their coupling, an earthquake big enough to knock Geralt’s lamp off the stand shook the room, but they barely felt it. Regis surrounded Geralt inside and out and his teeth and his tongue and his hands drew Geralt away into another place, where nothing mattered but the rhythm of their bodies and the whispered declarations of their foolish mouths.

We’ll never die. Geralt thought hazily, pulled deep under a hot tide. There’s nothing but this.

The morning of the apocalypse was sunny and clear with a cool breeze. Crocuses had just started to push out of the ground around Corvo Biano like the bright heads of round paintbrushes. The inhabitants ate an early breakfast, locked up the house, and drove down to the city center—the wide-open square between the Central Library and City Hall with its marble statue of Adela Marta on horseback.

It was Angoulême’s idea to set up the shelter for the siege in the Central Library. She had blueprints of the various floor layouts and presented them like a master spy. She showed them different corridors and defense points. It would be the best place for the families with children and vulnerable adults to take shelter. Others could fill up City Hall. And the vast open square between them, tiled with flat white stone could hold another mass of people.

Nilfgaardians were out in force, setting up tents and crates of supplies. A neat line of porta potties stretched along the side of the street. And teams of engineers were at work installing the anchors—gleaming coils of thick bluish-silver metal surrounding crystals mounted on a thick base. They could easily be mistaken for abstract modernist sculptures. The engineers were placing them gingerly on the tiles of the courtyard and along the street, carefully measuring the distance between them with surveyor tools.

I sure hope this works, Geralt thought with trepidation.

Reports came in of lesser vampires attacking people on the outskirts. The night before, Geralt had hunted an ekimmara and a trio of garkains lurking in a parking garage outside the amphitheater. He finished them off, but not before they killed one man and injured several other people. News of the attacks combined with warnings of “enemies approaching the city” broadcast all over TV, radio, and the internet, seemed to be convincing people to leave their homes.

Citizens were trickling into the city center, bringing bags and babies and pets. They clustered under the huge open tents erected by the Nilfgaardian army or wandered around watching the preparations. Some watched the sky, seeming uncertain as to what they would see.

It was a beautiful early spring day and daffodil buds filled the terraces with pale gold.

Geralt looked around for Regis and saw him talking with Dettlaff a short way away, both of them looking far from cheerful. He moved in closer to get in on the conversation and Regis inclined his head, inviting him in.

“We were just discussing the dissenting vampire population,” Regis said. “Unfortunately, very few have chosen to fight for this world. They prefer to hide away.”

“To battle one’s own kind is a terrible thing,” Dettlaff said. “We are forbidden to kill each other without the agreement of a council.”

“But you’re okay with killing a whole world…” Geralt muttered.

Dettlaff drew himself up stiffly. “I am not. But I see why others of my species would rather not choose sides. They are content here, but they will leave, if the gate opens.”

“Orianna,” Regis murmured.

“She means to defend her orphanage. But she will not fight for the city.”

“I suspected as much,” Regis said dully.

“She could bring her orphans here, but if she’d rather set up her own stronghold, we’ll manage fine without her.” Geralt said, still bitter at the thought of Orianna refusing to help Ciri and letting them walk into the alp ambush. “She told me from the start she doesn’t get involved.”

“You met Orianna?” Dettlaff said, frowning. “Was this—”

“We should review the prophecy,” Regis said, cutting him off. “Perhaps you can recognize a reference to a place, or a clue that I missed.” He pulled Dettlaff away, subtly steering him from allusions to the night of the party where Geralt and friends had confronted Syanna.

Geralt sighed and went to find Ciri. He wandered between tents and crates of supplies until he found her on the steps leading up to City Hall. She was talking to someone on a phone while Yen stood beside her, jabbing at a tablet.

Yen saw him first and raised an eyebrow. “Geralt, you’re not ready to battle the ultimate evil. Where are your swords?”

“In the trunk.” He shrugged his shoulders. “It’s a long time until nightfall. I didn’t want to freak out all the regular people.”

“There are hundreds of soldiers walking around with rifles on their backs and silver-coated machetes and you’re worried about your swords?” She cast her eyes to the heavens dramatically. “If you have nothing better to do, we need people to carry in supplies. And we need more vehicles to bring in people who don’t have transportation. There aren’t enough buses.”

“Seems like people with transportation would be leaving the city, not hanging out in the center,” Geralt observed.

“They are,” Ciri responded, shoving her phone into her jacket pocket. “All the roads going out of Beauclair are jammed, like Emhyr said. “It’s a mess out there already, and we still have eight hours before sunset.”

“Damn,” Geralt said. “I hope they get out.” He studied Ciri’s face. The jagged scar crossing her forehead and cheek seemed to blend in with the red rims of her eyes. “Did you get any sleep? You look terrible.”

“I’ve been having a lot of bad dreams,” Ciri said. “I’ll nap later. But did you see how many anchors we have set up? We’re almost halfway there. Then we have to activate them, but if everything goes to plan, it will be operational around noon.”

“That’s wonderful,” Yen murmured, although she looked a little worried, Geralt thought.

 “Regis found a way to check the connections between the different points so we don’t have spend so much time adjusting the spectrum,” Ciri told them. “And he added a buoyant film to the crystals they’re not so fragile. But he says we still have to protect them from damage.”

“Regis is pretty useful, huh?” Geralt said, beaming at the thought of the two of them getting along so well.

“He’s really smart,” Ciri said. “I guess he’s had a long time to learn things.”

“Just because you live a long life doesn’t make you wise,” Yen remarked slyly. “Even after a hundred years, you may still act like a fool.”

“Well, you’d know, wouldn’t you?” Geralt shot back with a wry smile.

“All right,” Ciri said, raising her hands. “You’re both so witty. Stop while you’re still just teasing.”

Geralt checked on Angoulême and Eithné who were playing Gwent under the shade of a tent. Then he went to greet Cahir and Milva as they returned from a patrol with Nilfgaardians. They’d cleared out some sirens from the lakeside area only to run into a pack of barghasts. Several of the soldiers had been wounded and had to be trucked to the medical tent.

“It’s getting scary out there,” Milva said grimly. “I don’t want to think what it will be like when the tougher vampires show up.”

Another earthquake rolled under them and they braced themselves automatically. The tents swayed but they were fastened tightly to the ground.

“They’re saying there’s something wrong with the anchors,” Cahir said. “We heard it on the radio on the way back. Do you know what’s going on?”

Geralt frowned and looked around. “Nobody told me. I’ll check it out. You two get some food and some rest.”

He prowled the perimeter until he found Regis with some technicians. Two were shifting an anchor while Regis peered at it through an elongated lens. “A little lower,” he murmured.

“What’s happening?” Geralt asked, a buzz of anxiety starting in his head.

“The anchors are not reflecting properly,” Regis said. “We’ve never tried it on such a large scale before. The dimensions are quite complex.”

Geralt rubbed a sweaty hand over his face. “I don’t mean to freak you out but if we don’t get that void up, everyone here will be sitting ducks.”

“I’m very much aware of that fact,” Regis said levelly. He squinted through the eyepiece again. “Rotate counterclockwise approximately four centimeters.”

The technicians obeyed, turning the heavy device with a grating of metal on stone. Nothing changed as far as Geralt could tell, but Regis looked content. He picked up a radio clipped to his belt. “Ciri, anchor thirty-four is adjusted. Please move anchors fifty-two and fifty-three to the coordinates I’m sending you.”

A shadow passed overhead and they all looked up. The wide wings of a fully-grown draconid stretched across the sky. Geralt suspected a wyvern, but he couldn’t tell from this distance with the sun in his eyes. His first instinct was to run to Milva and her sniper rifle. One of the technicians yelped. They all tensed like animals ready to run. Then the wyvern disappeared, sailing toward the hills and the luxury homes that dotted them.

“Shit,” Geralt sighed. “I hope all those people got out or barricaded themselves well.”

“There are vans with loudspeakers going around the city, warning people,” one of the technicians said, a short woman with a dark hair. “Everyone should know.”

“There’s hearing and there’s believing, and they’re not always related,” Geralt said darkly.

The radio crackled and Ciri’s voice came through. “Anchors adjusted. Turn on the power grid?”

“Yes,” Regis said. “Let’s try again.”

After a moment, the crystal mounted inside the anchor began to glow softly with a white light. Nothing else seemed to change. Geralt looked at Regis for information, but the vampire didn’t betray any emotion.

“It’s affirmative here,” Ciri said. “How about your side?”

Regis smiled. “Geralt, would you mind casting a sign?”

Geralt formed the sign for Quen and waited for the golden shield to form. Nothing happened. The technicians looked at him funny, probably wondering why he was throwing up his hand like an interpretive dance move.

“Affirmative on the western sector,” Regis said into the radio. “I’ll check the northwest quadrant.”

Geralt and the technicians all exchanged looks of relief. Far in the sky, the sun had started to drop from its zenith on a gradual trajectory toward the horizon which seemed to run far too fast.

Bouncing in an army jeep, Milva hunched forward in her seat, hands wrapped around her rifle. On her left side, Geralt sat holding his silver sword, sheathed but deadly. On her right side was Cahir, handsome and grim in his black body armor, a shining helmet in his lap. An earthquake shook the road under the wheels of the jeep and the Nilfgaardian officer driving it slowed the vehicle. No one said, “That was the biggest one yet,” but they were all thinking it. One more hour before sunset.

The jeep rounded a corner and swerved hard. Two civilians came pelting across the street, followed by three more. Behind them loped a snarling reddish creature, running on four legs. baring jagged teeth in a slobbering mouth.

“Ghoul,” Geralt snapped as the jeep screeched to a halt. The soldier in the front seat shot at it through the open window and wounded it in the flank. The ghoul spun and gave a wet roar. Two other ghouls emerged from between the buildings and joined it. Milva snapped the safety off her gun.

Geralt and Cahir pushed their doors open and all three of them jumped out of the jeep. The driver took off after the running civilians, leaving them in the street with the three monsters.

When Geralt threw a spell at the ghouls, knocking them back with a gust of wind, Cahir and Milva opened fire, finishing off two with multiple headshots. Geralt easily took out the third one that was already badly wounded, hacking off its head.

Milva sighed. It was good to have a simple kill after hours of hunting monsters and guiding citizens to the central square. Earlier, a royal griffin had torn half the roof off their vehicle and Cahir had a bandage on his arm from a werewolf’s claw. By now, they were starting to run low on ammunition, but Geralt was determined to keep hunting until the last minute.

The next call was for a bakery four blocks away. They weaved through the side streets, looking for trouble. Before long, they found a cluster of nekkers throwing rocks at the glass door of the shop which was splintering with webs of cracks. Seeing them, the monsters fell back into a swarm. They were fast and coordinated, attacking en masse, and if it weren’t for Geralt’s sweeping sword arcs, Milva knew they would have been overwhelmed.

The nekkers fell before his wide swing or stumbled back to avoid it and Milva and Cahir were able to pick off enough to thin their ranks and even the odds. Milva watched a nekker’s grotesque grin shatter under the close impact of her silver bullet. Bits of its brain splattered her, but she was already jerking to fire at the next wrinkled face full of teeth.

When the nekkers were reduced to corpses and the two terrified women inside the shop were ushered out, they headed back to the next pick up point. The jeep met them on the way, but there weren’t enough seats for everyone and instead of arguing who would ride, they sent off the civilians and headed off on foot. Milva mentally estimated how many rounds she had left. Not a lot. Enough to make it back to the siege camp?

They were jogging through the streets now, looking at the sinking sun lighting up all the edges of the buildings. The magic hour, she’d heard it called. She found it beautiful and frightening, wondering what might be lurking in the shadows.

“Seventeen blocks,” Cahir said sharply.

“We can make it,” Geralt assured him. Milva appreciated his confidence, but she didn’t have his certainty or his witcher mutations. Still, she was a soldier and she would make it back to her daughter one way or another.

The long glass windows of shops and offices reflected the golden glare of the setting sun. The young trees planted along Heron Street were covered in pale pink buds. The air had a silence that Milva rarely heard in the city. There were no people on the sidewalks, no cars in the streets. Far away, sirens sounded, but there was nothing else.

Then laughter, eerie and terrible. A shadow flashed across their path. Geralt swore and cast his golden shield. Fear streamed through Milva like cold water. Cahir moved near her, and all she could think of was watching him fall.

The creature materialized in a blur of gray skin and red hair. It slashed at Geralt, claws sending up sparks from his shield. He swung at it, opening up a cut across its ribs even as Milva and Cahir opened fire. The vampire shrieked and blurred into shadow again.

Geralt pulled something from his belt and lobbed it into the street. The incendiary burst into a cloud of silvery dust. He motioned for them to enter it and they all moved into the swirl of sparkles. Silver stuck to Milva’s clothes and hair. She covered her mouth and nose with one hand.

The vampire materialized as soon as it came in contact with the silver. Its red mouth opened wide. Its claws were as long as Milva’s hands and came swinging for her face. She raised her gun and fired every last shot in her clip.

Chapter Text

Yen rolled her bottom lip between her teeth. The twinge of pain distracted her from her mounting fears.

Lights were switching on around the central square—lanterns hung from the tents and wide spotlights sweeping from the edges. Knots of Nilfgaardian soldiers were gathering around the perimeter. Triss was sitting on the ground just outside of the void, staring into a hand mirror, scrying furiously. Her fawn-colored parka was zipped up to her chin.

Around the makeshift refugee camp, generators hummed and people milled about, clustering around the propone heaters and setting themselves up on blankets or camp chairs. It had turned into a strange sort of picnicking festival. Families shared food cooked on little camp stoves or distributed in meal kits from the Nilfgaardians.

Earlier, the governor herself had given a rousing speech to the gathered crowds, laying out the procedures for the night on a little stage in the center. Now the gaudy pop star who lived with her was playing an acoustic guitar for a growing crowd. Yen’s ears twitched. Was that a folk-rock song about a witcher? Oh yes. Trust Geralt to attract the most unlikely admirers.

Still, there weren’t nearly enough people in the camp, only a fraction of the city’s population. She hoped the rest had fled, if traffic had started moving again on the highways.

The two “good” vampires—Regis and Dettlaff—were quietly arguing nearby. At least that’s what their tense posture and hand gestures seemed to imply. Although she didn’t expect them to turn treacherous, Yen did take a little comfort in the fact that they couldn’t transform inside the void.

She glanced toward the lights of an approaching vehicle, but soon saw it only carried Nilfgaardian soldiers and another sample of Beauclair’s populace—a young couple looking scared and cold, like everyone else when they first arrived. With the falling dark, the time for rescues was ending.

Finally, mercifully, Geralt appeared, illuminated in the sweeping beams of a spotlight. He held his bloody silver sword before him. Just behind him walked the garage woman, Milva, and the policeman who was her companion. He had a bandage around his arm and she had a cut across her face that was starting to scab over. Geralt looked unharmed but tired. She felt the yearning to run to him, wrap him up and comfort him. The pull of the bond was tight in her chest. She scowled at her own impulses and his foolish heroics. It wasn’t good for him to exhaust himself like this now, so close to the end.

“Geralt!” she called out. “We’re running out of time.”

His yellow eyes flickered to her and he walked her way, passing out of the glare of the spotlights and into the glow of the lanterns. Far away, shrieks and high screams sounded faintly. Yen’s stomach shrank at the implication.

“We were just trying to get out as many people as we could.” he said, coming to her. “What’s happening? Have you located the Unseen Elder?”

“We have a general area,” she said. “Your vampire paramour can explain more. Right now, you need to ready yourself. Get everything you need.” Something stuck in her throat and she cleared it noisily. “Say… whatever you must to your friends before we go.”

“We?” he said looking at her warily. “Why do you think you’re coming along?”

“Geralt,” Yen sighed with growing impatience. “Triss and I will accompany you and assist you. What can we do, trapped without power in this void? We’re useless here.”

“You want to go out there with the alps and bruxae and all their pals?”

“Yes, we—” a sudden jolt in the earth shook her off her feet. She fell forward and Geralt caught her. Something tumbled and clattered nearby. Yelps and exclamations sounded from the people around them.

For a moment, Yen wanted to melt into Geralt. Once she would have, without thought. She hated being without her powers but he was a safe haven. Or he had been, then. Now there was just the jinn-forged bond and the bittersweet memories of better times to tie them together. She schooled her face and straightened, pulling away from him. “There’s no time to argue. We’re coming.”

Geralt exhaled, looking irritated. “Fine. Do what you like. Now where is Ciri? I need to talk to her.”

Oh no, Yen thought with a prick of dread. How could Ciri be so thoughtlessly cruel? It wasn’t like her at all. “Well, she’s on her way to Nilfgaard. Emhyr insisted, as part of the deal for supplying the anchors and allowing her to stay with you. She will stay in The City of Golden Towers until this is over.”

Geralt’s face fell and his arms crossed over his chest, hugging himself. “She never told me that. Did she leave a message for me?”

“I don’t know,” Yen admitted, feeling an aching sympathy. “Maybe it was too hard to say goodbye.”

He looked wrecked and she didn’t know how to comfort him.

Then the vampire was there—Regis, the herbalist, wearing a long black peacoat with a brown satchel slung over his shoulder. He stood by Geralt’s side and put a hand his lower back. Once again, she felt the disconnect itch in her brain as she looked at them—the wild witcher paired with the unflappable academic. It didn’t fit, and a part of her resented it. Geralt should have chosen a glamorous, useless woman that Yen could easily pick apart. Not this odd, clever vampire full of secrets and contradictions. But it wasn’t for her to determine.

Slowly, Geralt turned away from Yen and into Regis. “Ciri’s gone,” he said.

“Yes,” Regis said softly. “She left in a helicopter. She said you would understand.”

“I don’t,” Geralt grumbled. “I know she made a deal, but she should have told me.”

“Perhaps she knew you’d argue against it. What matters is that she is away from all of this, for a time, anyway.” Regis leaned his head against Geralt’s shoulder. “Come away now. Clean your sword. Wash up and eat. The night is upon us.”

Geralt sat on a canvas sheet stretched under a wide gray tent, surrounded by his friends, eating his last meal. It was tofu “taco” meat on rice. To wash it down, they had water or grape juice in paper cups. Well, Nilfgaard hadn’t blown their budget on food and drinks.

Geralt stirred his rice listlessly and listened to the quiet voices around him. Cahir was fussing over the cut on Milva’s face while Eithné drowsed in her lap. Dandelion was asking Angoulême about what she’d thought of his acoustic concert. Beside Geralt, Regis sat with his bowl of food untouched, eyes focused somewhere beyond. Every now and then, gunfire would sound from somewhere on the perimeter, but only short blasts. If there were vampires out there, they kept to the shadows.

Angoulême reached into her backpack and brought out a familiar dark bottle. Milva and Regis laughed. Dandelion clapped his hands with delight. Geralt grinned widely. They extended their cups and she tipped a glug of mandrake cordial into each one.

Eithné, half asleep with her head in Milva’s lap whined that she wasn’t getting any, but Milva just shushed her and her eyes drifted closed again.

“A toast to Gramps,” Angoulême said. “He’s running off to slay the vamp boss. But he’s coming back, so nobody start crying. He’s too crabby to croak just yet. So I say, see you later, man. Not goodbye.”

“Thanks,” Geralt said fighting to smile. “I hope you’re right.”

“To Geralt, the finest defender in the land!” Dandelion trumpeted and they all raised their glasses and drank.

The burn of the alcohol brought back better times—that first night in Regis’ shop in the golden gleam of the lamplight, Regis’s knowing eyes. “I’m not like most people.” And Geralt had wanted him then, although he hadn’t really realized or understood what he was feeling.

With the cordial glowing in his belly and radiating heat up into his chest, he reached to wrap a hand around Regis’ wrist. His pulse was low and slow, like Geralt’s. His skin felt cool to the touch.

“Come with me,” Geralt said without thinking. “I need you with me at the end.” The words seemed to tumble out of him.

Regis’ eyes gleamed with liquid warmth. “Yes,” he breathed. “Thank you.”

Triss bobbed into the tent. “Geralt, they’re coming!”

Gunfire split the air and screams rose from the square. Pushing out of the tent, Geralt scanned the area quickly. It looked like the Nilfgaardians had shot down a katakan that had ventured into the void. It lay splayed on the paving tiles in all its gory glory, hairy arms spread wide. Flashes of movement across the glare of the spotlights showed more creatures moving in.

“The families with kids are inside the library,” Cahir said. “We need to get as many people as we can into City Hall.”

“Protect the anchors,” Geralt said. “We can’t lose the void when the higher vamps start moving in.”

Milva bundled Eithné out of the tent. “Angoulême, take her to the library.” She grabbed Geralt’s arm. “Don’t fucking die, all right?”

“All right,” Geralt said as firmly as he could. “Take out some monsters for me.” He turned and clapped Cahir on the shoulder roughly. “Same to you. And look out for my girls.”

Cahir jerked his head in a nod, throat working silently.

Dandelion looked forlorn, so Geralt put a hand on his head. “Write something nice about me.”

“Always,” Dandelion proclaimed with forced bravado.

Striding toward them, Anna Henrietta moved through the disorder like a ship cutting through water. Beside her walked Syanna and just behind them was Dettlaff, long coat swirling like a villain.

“Geralt, take any of my people that you need,” Anna Henrietta said. “I don’t know how long our defenses will stand.”

“I have everyone I need,” Geralt said.

“I will accompany you,” Dettlaff said shortly. “I have no power here.”

Syanna sucked in her breath, face tightening.

“No,” Geralt said. “If the void goes down, you’re the only one here who can fight them.”

“Stay,” Regis said to Dettlaff. He reached out and touched the golden moth pin that once again graced the front of Dettlaff’s coat. “Bring the others to fight with you.”

More gunfire blasted and the shrieks of vampires filled the air.

Yen rushed toward them. “We have to go!” She stumbled as a quake rocked the courtyard. One of the propane heaters fell with a crash and the others rocked wildly.

“Coming,” Geralt yelled, sprinting to meet her. Regis and Triss followed close behind him.

Yen led them past the library to the north side of the perimeter. People were rushing all around them, many trying to get to shelter while others shouted at each other about the danger of earthquakes bringing down the buildings.

A ring of Nilfgaardian soldiers and Beauclair officers were stationed around the anchors. They had long guns and silver-coated machetes hanging from their belts. He wondered how long they could hold off the vampires. They watched with confusion as Geralt and the others run out of the void and into the night.

As soon as they cleared the anchors, Triss opened a portal, splitting the air with magic, and they all dashed through it. Geralt winced a little as he went into the crackling blackness, remembering how fickle the magic gateways were. But after the dizzying, nauseating rush of power passed, he found himself stumbling with the others into a grassy field.

Above them, the night sky spread white stars, almost too bright to be real. Far below, dark water rippled the edges of a wide lake.

“Lac Célavy,” Regis said. “This is where the epicenter of the quakes seems to be.”

“So, where is he?” Geralt demanded.

“It’s a large area,” Yen said sharply. “We hoped that you, the prophesied wolf would sense something.”

Geralt touched his medallion which rested unmoving on his chest. “Fuck. How am I supposed to save the world, if I don’t know where I’m supposed to be?”

“Perhaps…” Regis started to say. But even he seemed at a loss.

The moon stretched a long trail of light across the surface of the lake, reflecting a rippling white road. On the other side of valley, the lights of Beauclair seemed faint in comparison. Dark specks swarmed over the city like insects drawn to a flame.

Angoulême herded Eithné toward the library, trying to distract her from the blasts of guns and the screams echoing around them. “Look at this awesome library,” she said loudly. “I know the place inside and out. We’ll be safe there.”

“Safe from what?” Eithné asked dazedly. She hadn’t quite woken up. “Where’d my mom go?”

“She’s working,” Angoulême said. “We’re going to hang out and read some books. Tons and tons of books.”

A shriek split the air, way too close. Angoulême automatically shielded Eithné as she turned. About twenty feet above them, a creepy winged vampire with gray skin sailed downward. Its mouth opened, showing long white teeth. “It’s here!” the creature screamed. “Here!”

Eithné couldn’t see with Angoulême blocking her view, but she yelped nonetheless. Angoulême pushed her down flat and grabbed for the can clipped to her backpack. When the creature swooped down and hit the invisible swell of the void, it fell heavily, crashing into the paving stones in front of them.

Eithné screamed long and loud. The girl had a hefty pair of lungs on her. Angoulême rushed the fallen vampire and, as it raised its head shakily, she emptied the canister of pepper spray into its ugly face with a harsh hiss.

The monster howled and jerked its head away, frantically scrubbing at its eyes. Angoulême swung her leg up and kicked it hard in the face with her combat boot. The impact made a wet crunch and sent it sprawling once more on the ground. Then she backed up, grabbed Eithné by the arm and hustled her up the steps to the library. Hopefully the vamp would stay down until the cops or men in black filled it will silver bullets.

The doors of the library loomed large as they bounced up the stone steps. Vampire shrieks and shouts seemed to increase around them. Angoulême barreled into the right door and pounded on the shiny wood until someone finally opened it and let them in. Angoulême and Eithné tumbled into the lobby filled with terrified faces. As soon as the guards slammed the door behind them, they heard snarls and bangs and the sound of gunshots. Something thumped against the doors, then jolted and slid down.

“It’s okay,” Angoulême told Eithné. “They can’t move through walls here. We’re safe.” She hugged the little girl close, willing the words to be true.

Cahir shot a leathery-looking vampire in the chest—three quick shots. It toppled backwards and he prayed that was enough to keep it down because another just like it was currently scrambling over its body, lunging for him. He shot it through the eye and it stumbled sideways. Turning, he blasted a horned creature—the same kind that had attacked him and Geralt in the high school. These bulkier vampires didn’t seem to be affected by the void, but they didn’t flash from place to place like the others, so they weren’t as hard to hit. Still, the vampires had enough strength and speed to keep Cahir and the others on high alert. They’d already torn chunks out of several of the defenders.

On his left, Milva had her rifle out and was popping off a couple creatures near one of the anchors. When they fell, she craned her head over her shoulder and started. “They’re landing inside the void.”

Cahir looked that way and saw half a dozen winged creatures flapping and flailing on the courtyard paving stones and the steps up to the library. Some men and women in police uniforms were shooting or stabbing them. “Looks like they got it under control.”

But even as he spoke, he saw a dark swarm of shapes crossing the sky, sailing over the void to the bright white building on the north side of the square. More streamed in between the anchors, running right past the defenders.

“They’re heading for the library,” Cahir said, confused and alarmed.

“Shit. Eithné and Angoulême are in there, and all the other kids.” Milva shouted. She shot two more creatures charging toward her. “We can’t stay here.”

“But if the anchors go down…” Cahir’s chest tightened. “No, you’re right. Let’s go find them.”

They turned together and started to run across the long expanse of the square. Frantic civilians and harried fighters swarmed around them. Fallen corpses of monsters were beginning to litter the ground as more and more entered the void. They jumped over the furry body of some bat-like monster only to skid to a halt as the ground shook hard. It felt like the paving stones were moving in waves.

Just when it seemed the quake had ended, the stone split apart in front of them. A huge, black, wormlike creature with dozens of twitching legs burst out of the earth. It was as long as a bus and had a shiny head like a giant motorcycle helmet. Wicked mandibles snapped open with a hiss, dripping steaming yellow liquid that sizzled on the ground.

Geralt climbed up the hillside with Regis close behind, both of them scanning the grasses for any sign of a murderous, invincible old vampire. Yen and Triss were muttering spells and sending glowing balls of light through the air.

“Magical trackers,” Triss told Geralt.

“Does the Unseen Elder have magic to track?” Geralt asked skeptically.

“I don’t know, Geralt,” Yen snapped. “Do you have a better idea?”

As Geralt was formulating the best way to reply, a streak of green light blinded them all. Geralt reached for his sword, but when his vision cleared, delight flashed through him. Ciri stood before them wearing leggings patterned with little birds and an open hoodie over her tank top. Her slender sword was in her hand.

“Ciri!” Triss cried. “We thought you were in Nilfgaard.”

“I was,” Ciri said. “But I thought I’d take a break from golden towers for a little while.”

An almost painful surge of relief ran through Geralt. He felt tears burning at the corners of his eyes. “That was a bad trick to play, kid. I thought you hadn’t even bothered to say goodbye.”

She smiled. “I hate goodbyes. Besides, I didn’t want to clue Emhyr into my plan to join you all later.”

Yen sighed. “I hope he will be understanding when this is all over.” But she looked just as happy to see Ciri as the rest of them.

“We’re glad you could accompany us,” Regis said. “Unfortunately, we don’t have any leads as to the Unseen Elder’s location, at the moment.”

“I know where he is,” Ciri said, her expression hardening. Her hand on the sword hilt twitched, betraying her nerves. “He’s calling to me.”

Angoulême brought Eithné up the stairs into the Children’s Room where all the picture books were shelved. Little kids were running around, playing with the toys, putting together puzzles, chasing each other with plastic dinosaurs. The grownups were all quiet and tense but the kids didn’t even seem to know they should be scared. It was kind of nice.

She plopped Eithné down on the carpet and got her set up with some colorful-looking books. After the incident with the flying vampire, Eithné seemed to be coming down from her adrenaline high and was looking pretty tired again.

Angoulême left her with the books and popped out into the hallway, looking down the flights of stairs to where people were milling around the lobby and through the racks of newspapers and magazines. Some cops were guarding the doors, keeping them bolted. Every few minutes, something thudded against the doors, sometimes snarling or shrieking. Then the sounds of metal hitting meat and the sound stopped again. Angoulême guessed the cops had their machetes out to avoid accidently shooting people. She could only hope they managed to keep taking out the baddies that seemed so determined to get in.

She checked her phone and found a text from Dandelion telling her he and the governor were holed up in city hall and asking about Eithné. She was in the middle of tapping out a reply when another earthquake rocked the building. Books tumbled off the shelves and a grating crunch sounded from below. The sign at the top of the stairs that read Quiet Please fell over with a clang. People started screaming.

Angoulême steadied herself and peering down below. A huge crack ran up the wall by the stairs and part of the railing had collapsed and was hanging by wires. She couldn’t tell whether the stairs themselves were damaged at all.

Something slammed into the window at the top of the stairs and she heard the sound of cracking glass. She whipped around to see a winged creature with huge ears clinging to the window frame. When its glossy black eyes fastened on her, it let out a high-pitched shriek and battered the glass with its hind legs. Spiderweb cracks spread from the impact and one bony claw broke through, bleeding and grasping wildly.

Angoulême grabbed the fallen Quiet Please sign by its long metal pole and wielded it like an oversized hockey stick. When the vampire smashed both back legs through the glass completely, she swung the sign hard. It caught both clawed feet and bashed them back out the window. The bat-monster swung and scrambled to keep its hold, still clinging there. It hissed into her face and spittle flecked the cracked glass still separating their heads. “We will have you,” it squeaked. “Come now or we will slaughter them all.”

“Fuck off, motherfucker,” Angoulême yelled. She jabbed the top of the sign through the break in the glass and punched it into the creature’s belly. It launched backward with a screech and tumbled down. She heard a satisfying crunch from below.

Pulling back, she looked toward the Children’s Room and saw several kids poking out of the doorway, wide-eyed.

“Bats,” she said, setting the sign down with a thud. “Don’t even worry.”

Milva rolled hard to avoid the centipede’s strike. Acidic poison hit the stone beside her and started smoking. She brought her gun up and aimed for its vulnerable underbelly, but it was already thrashing toward Cahir as he fired at the head.

“Get the belly!” She shouted. He dodged to the side, but it knocked him hard in the shoulder with hardened armor plates, throwing him down.

Milva yelled and squeezed her gun, spraying silver bullets over its body. Most bounced harmlessly off its chiton, but they distracted the creature from sinking its mandibles into Cahir. It curled into a tight, defensive ball, protecting itself, and for a moment, she thought they might be able to get by.

But as Cahir pulled himself to his feet, scraped and bruised, the centipede lashed out again. It whipped outward like a released spring, knocking him off his feet. Cahir skidded over the paving stones with a force that made fear squeeze Milva’s lungs. She tried to remember what Geralt had taught her about the centipedes. If only I had his signs and bombs.

“Don’t move,” she shouted at Cahir. “They’re blind and sense vibrations.”

Cahir lay still, though whether he was conscious or not, she couldn’t tell. Some cops were circling in, guns and machetes drawn. The centipede jerked toward their footsteps and swayed, waiting for them to get in range.

Milva raised her rifle and aimed for the gap between the chiton plates when it swiveled its head to the right. One eye closed, she breathed out slowly and squeezed the trigger twice. The recoil knocked solidly into the meat of her shoulder.

The monster reared back, dribbled of yellow acid running from its head. One of the cops took initiative to rush in a thrust a machete between the rows of bents black legs. The centipede twisted violently, yanking the weapon out of his hand. For a few minutes, the creature squirmed and writhed, until it finally fell to the ground with a massive thud. It curled up and remained motionless long enough that Milva dared to run to Cahir.

He looked dazed and the side of his face was scraped raw and streaked with dirt, but he was alive. He got to his feet with some effort, leaning on her. “Legs are fine. I think my shoulder’s dislocated.”

She looked at his arm in its dirty, torn sleeve. Fortunately, it wasn’t the one with the bandage over the gash from the ghouls. “Can I get some help here?”

The cops were already running for the next crisis, but one stopped and assisted Milva as she popped Cahir’s arm back into the socket. He groaned through clenched teeth and she saw sweat dampening his collar. But he straightened and thanked his fellow officer.

“Are you gonna be okay?” Milva demanded. “I can leave you at the med tent…” It twisted her gut to see him in such pain.

But he shook his head. “We gotta move. Look.”

Following his eyes to the north, she saw a line of fat red buds breaking through the paving stones, vines snaking toward the library. Here and there, a towering flower stalk emerged, unfurling fleshy petals. Archespores, Geralt called them. But they usually spread in a circular pattern. This straight line of plants stretching toward the library building made her belly fill with cold fear.

As they followed Ciri down the steep hillside, Geralt dug into his bag and pulled out some elixirs. Black Blood, Thunderbolt, Swallow?

“I recommend something to enhance your signs,” Regis said. “You should try Yrden to keep him from moving between planes. It’s a limited field, but it could help.”

“Yrden for vampires?” Geralt said. He uncorked a bottle of Petri’s Philter and downed it.

“Yes,” Regis said hurriedly. “My research indicates that it can dampen vampiric powers, like it keeps your wraiths from shifting.”

“Worth a try,” Geralt agreed. “But I still don’t know how we’re going to take down someone who’s invincible.”

“Let us hope that is an exaggerated part of the legend,” Regis said quietly. “If no one has been able to harm him up this point, perhaps it was assumed.”

“We have to try,” Ciri said, sounding like she was trying to convince herself.

“As soon as he appears, you should leave,” Yen told Ciri. “Move between spheres, if you must. I don’t like the idea of you answering his call and falling into his hands.”

“I’m not running,” Ciri said stubbornly. “You’ll need all the help you can get.”

“Wait!” Triss said suddenly. They all froze in place. Geralt’s medallion jumped high on his chest as magic split the air.

Geralt drew his sword as the portals opened gaping holes in the night. The sorceresses who emerged dropped gracefully into the grass. At the forefront stood Philippa Eilhart in her usual long red dress.

Ciri backed up to stand beside Geralt. Her eyes darted around as she tried to decide what to do.

“I told you to stay away,” Geralt growled at Philippa. “You won’t take her.”

“Don’t leap to conclusions,” Philippa said coolly. The other sorceresses drew up behind her. “We are here to end the vampire menace, not interfere with your precious little family.” She side-eyed Regis with a look that could strip paint. “Triss invited us.”

“I didn’t think you’d come!” Triss said with a note of anger. “You never replied to my messages.”

“We were deliberating,” Philippa said. “We ultimately decided to kill this unseen one to preserve the power networks of this world.”

“And the people,” another sorceress said behind her.

Philippa gave an elegant shrug. “Time is short. Lead us to the abomination.”

Geralt balked at the thought of an alliance with the women who had imprisoned and hunted his daughter for years. But neither did he want to start a battle with the entire Lodge, especially if they were actually going to bring some extra firepower to the unwinnable fight.

“Let’s go,” Ciri said in a clipped voice. “But don’t think I’m not watching you for your next trick.”

Syanna stood on the steps to City Hall next to her sister and watched the chaos enfold. The formerly pristine cream-colored paving stones of the city square were now littered with fallen monsters and rubble. A huge dead worm was curled in the center like black drainage tubing. Soldiers were shooting and hacking at everything that entered, but they were quickly becoming overwhelmed. In the distance, huge vicious-looking plants sprouted in an advancing line.

Anarieta stared out at the chaos and occasionally barked commands into her phone. On her left, the hulking bald security guy listened to updates on his radio, face set in a grimace. Behind them, the singer Dandelion looked anxiously out between sending texts on his phone.

Syanna searched for Dettlaff and finally saw him near the perimeter with a phalanx of loyal bruxae. Dettlaff prowled around the square hunting intruding lesser vampires. When he snarled and snapped at them, they cowered and backed away. But without his higher powers, his influence had a limit, especially pitched against the call of the elder vampire. She could tell he wanted nothing more than to flee the void and rip apart his enemies. But he knew it’d leave him vulnerable to other higher vampires and possibly get him shot by the Nilfgaardians.

The last civilians who’d lingered in the squares were now streaming up the steps and crowding to get into the building. They’d abandoned the tents and supplies to the beasts entering the void. The sky above was flooding with dark flying shapes.

Syanna grabbed her sister’s hand and gave it a tug. “We should go in.”

“Not yet,” Anarieta said, brow furrowed. She gazed out toward the edifice of the library. “Why are so many of them going there?”

“I don’t know,” Syanna said tersely. “I’m just happy they’re not coming here. Get inside already. It’s getting crazy out there.”

“You go,” Anarieta said. “This is the fight for my city. I can’t run away.”

Syanna wanted to slap her on the back of the head. “Why do you always have to be so fucking noble? The best thing you can do for everyone is get to shelter.”

“She’s right,” Damien, the security guy said. “Mrs. Governor, there’s nothing more you can do here. We need to get you to safety.”

“Vampires are swarming the library and I should just walk away?” Anarieta snapped. “If anything, we should be going to help the people there.”

Syanna looked back to Dandelion, hoping to get some backup. His face was white as a sheet and his mouth trembled. He’d definitely vote to retreat.

Dandelion touched Anarieta’s arm. “The families with children are in the library. Angoulême and Eithné are there. I have to go to them. Stay here, my love.”

“No,” Anarieta said firmly. “We will all go to them. Damien, call your men. We will assist at the library.”

Syanna closed her eyes and clenched her fists. Goddamn honorable bastards. They were practically suicidal. The two of them deserved each other. “How?” she croaked. “That place is crawling with monsters. What do you think you can do?”

“Whatever we can,” Anarieta declared fiercely. “Shelter yourself, Syanna. I pray we will all survive this night.”

Syanna swallowed all the curses climbing up her throat. “Fine,” she hissed. “Somebody give me a gun or something. I’m right behind you.”

Inside the library, Angoulême stumbled over fallen books, hanging onto a shelf as another earthquake ripped through. Thankfully the shelves were low and the books were lightweight in the kids’ section. Eithné crouched against the end of one shelf. The other kids and their parents were scattered around, comforting each other.

Below, screams and the sound of running feet clattered up the stairs. Angoulême popped out to the stairwell to see what the racket was about. She caught a glimpse of thick vines bursting through the floor before the herd of people nearly trampled her. At least the stairs hadn’t given out on them.

Dodging and slipping through the oncoming people, Angoulême darted back into the children’s area and grabbed Eithné by the hand. “Guess we’re not going down anytime soon.” She guided Eithné away from the crowd. About half of them surged into the Children’s Room while the rest kept going up the stairs. Angoulême pictured the map in her mind.

“I want to go home,” Eithné said, snuffling.

“We will,” Angoulême promised her. “We just gotta find a safe place first.” She led Eithné out of the Children’s Room and into the art gallery, guiding her around shattered glass and fallen plaster. All the pictures on the walls were lopsided and many had fallen. The big light fixture in the ceiling hung at a tilted angle, so she made sure to avoid it.

In the very back was the door to staff lounge. Angoulême keyed in the code she’d found by hacking into the library staff’s system, and brought Eithné inside. There was a frumpy orange-brown couch with a hideous crocheted blanket draped over the back. “You can rest here,” Angoulême told the little girl.

“I want my mom,” Eithné mumbled, sniffing again.

Angoulême grabbed her a box of tissues from the table. “Sit down. I’ll send a message to your mom and let her know where we are.” When Eithné had settled into the couch, Angoulême draped the blanket around her shoulders. Then she got a packet of mini cookies from the vending machine and gave it to her.

The cookies seemed to cheer up Eithné and she didn’t even flinch when the next earthquake rolled through, shaking the floor so hard the table shifted several inches. Angoulême bit her lip hard and pulled out her phone. At least the howls outside were muffled here.

Dettlaff swept the perimeter, forcing back the lower vampires with the strength of his presence. Even without his transformation, he could intimidate. Still, it felt like shaking a knife at a horde of rats. There were always a few sneaking in when his back turned. He couldn’t fly or stream along and catch them like hawk among swallows. He could only snarl and bare his teeth.

Dark eyes drew him. A figure stood beyond the anchors, a tall silver-haired man in a black duster. He grinned at Dettlaff. Higher vampire, but not one that Dettlaff recognized. He made no move to enter the void. Dettlaff tried to pin him with a glare.

“Why don’t you come out of the kennel and meet me?” the vampire said. “Slip your leash.”

“Why don’t you come in?” Dettlaff countered. He could feel the bruxae behind him shrink at the thought of facing another higher one. But Dettlaff didn’t fear. Inside the void, the soldiers could gun him down easily.

The other vampire grinned wider, fangs on full display. “We can take down this silly fence, foolish traitor. Everyone inside will die. Or you can just give us the key. That’s all we want.”

“Key?” Dettlaff said, wondering what game was afoot.

“The one inside that building.” He pointed to the library in the distance. “Bring it to us and no one else will suffer.”

“There is no key,” Dettlaff said harshly, still confused. “There are only humans there. No threat to you.”

The vampire studied him, mouth turning down with disappointment. “You were not one of the privileged council.” His face transformed and his claws grew. “You do not know her. You’re wasting my time.”

Then he flew at the nearest dimeritium anchor, cutting it apart in swift strokes. The nearby soldiers came running and raised their guns. Silver bullets flew. The vampire screamed with pain. But when he flashed away, the anchor was a shattered ruin. And the higher vampire had already moved to another metal coil, claws raised.

Dettlaff barreled toward him, out of the void and into his true form.

Milva thundered up the steps to the library. A shout from Cahir made her duck instinctively and a poisonous spine flew past her head to smash into the steps. Archespore vines writhed up from the broken paving stones, draping over the door. An ugly reddish flower twisted and gaped at her. Before she could bring up her rifle, Cahir’s bullet splattered into the flower and blasted it in half. Gooey bits flew down to litter the steps.

Milva pulled the machete free from her belt. “Time to do some pruning.”

By the time they’d hacked and dodged and cleared out the archespores on the first floor, they were both tired and aching. The stairway looked half-collapsed. Milva plucked her phone out of her pocket and saw a missed call from Angoulême so she tapped the name.

“Aunty!” Angoulême chirped, a strain in her voice. “So nice of you to call. We’re just hanging out in a library overrun by monsters. How’re you?”

“Looking for my daughter,” Milva said. “What’s your status? Any hostiles?”

“Roger, Ma’am. We’re in the breakroom on the second floor, back of the art gallery. Knock and I’ll let you in. So far, no more baddies trying to break in. But they seem to have an itch for me.”

“For you?” Milva said. “Why? Aren’t there other people there?”

“Yeah, this bat dude told me if I gave up, they’d leave everyone else alone. Dunno why. Nothing special about me.”

Milva squinted. Something moved in the shadows in the next room. Cahir raised his gun and waited.

Cold fear ran down Milva’s spine. “You look like Ciri,” Milva realized. “It’s Ciri they want.”

The crunch of broken plaster and a panting breath was the only warning before the horned vampires attacked.

Geralt wasn’t sure what he expected to find—maybe a hulking, horrible uber-vampire that could shoot spikes of weaponized blood. But when Ciri led them cautiously to the bent pine tree clinging to the hillside, there was only a bony shape crouched in the branches.

As the person in the tree unfolded slightly, Geralt’s cat eyes picked out the wizened body of an old man, hollow-eyed and shriveled with skin a dull, milky gray. He didn’t seem to care about the witcher with the silver sword or the collection of sorceresses in fashionable clothing. He ignored Regis. His eyes went to Ciri, slim and childlike in her oversized hoodie. Then he looked at Regis with a ghost of a smile and he spoke something in another language.

Regis stiffened. “Ciri, leave. Go!”

Ciri drew her sword, but didn’t retreat.

The vampire in the tree straightened, standing to his full height and Geralt realized he was actually very tall, with the long bones of a creature who had been formidable once. He had no expression in his dead eyes.

Geralt cast Yrden and a ring of purple light sprang up around him. At the same time, the sorceresses threw up a shield around the assembled party and moved to the edges of it.

Regis shouted something in the vampire tongue, desperation in his voice.

The vampire in the tree flicked his fingers dismissively and Regis’ voice cut off. Geralt’s heart rolled in his chest. Regis stood frozen, hands raised, mouth open. It was as though he’d been turned to stone.

Dandelion’s guitar bumped against his back as he ran. Part of him regretted bringing it with him, but thought if he died, he ought to fall with his trusty companion close to his heart. In front of him, Damien la Tour led their little posse up the steps, with Anarieta and Syanna on either side. The rest of the security team flanked out behind them, mopping up monsters as they went.

The doors to the library were tore open and split vines oozing stinking sap hung from every surface. Dandelion felt his heart shiver, but he soldiered onward. From inside, a series of loud gunshots rang out, and they all halted. Snarls, thuds, and the scratch of clawed feet echoed after.

Damien thrust his head inside and started to say something, then reached for his own weapon and plunged in. Syanna held her sister back and raised her borrowed gun. It did nothing to soothe Dandelion’s nerves to see that familiar sight, but he reminded himself they were on the same side now.

Moving closer to the sisters, he peered into the mess of the library entrance and saw Milva and Cahir battling a pair of bloody creatures that leapt like springs. They had reddish gray skin and bulbous skulls. Their elongated mouths snapped and dripped saliva. Milva had her machete out while Cahir held his pistol in both hands, tracking the movement of the horrid beasts. When Milva slashed at one, Damien shot it in the side.

Hearing gunfire behind him too, Dandelion turned to see the two security officers firing on more creatures approaching the library—horned monstrosities with webbed arms, and a huge, leathery beast with wings and a curved beak.

A howl rattled from inside the building and the shockwaves made them all stumble. Syanna fell to her hands and knees. Damien swayed on his feet, eyes crossed. Before Dandelion could reach out and steady him, one of the bloody creatures leapt into him, knocking Damien to the floor. Anna screamed, sinking to Syanna’s side and reaching for her gun. Dandelion pulled the guitar off his back and swung it into the monster’s head. The impact made a hollow thud and a discordant twang of rattle strings but it kept the fanged mouth from tearing out Damien’s throat long enough that Syanna could shoot it.

Dandelion backed into the wall, breathing hard. Anna helped Damien up. Claws had ripped along Damien’s torso, but his wounds appeared shallow. The remaining beast fell to Cahir’s gunfire, slumping on the floor. But outside, the shouts and shots continued.

“More are coming,” Syanna groaned. “Why are we here again?”

“There are lots of people up there,” Cahir said, pointing to the floors above. “If we can hold off the attackers at the stairwell, we can buy them some time.”

“There may already be monsters up there,” Milva said. “Some of us should head up and clear them out.”

Cahir nodded. “Find Eithné. I’ll hold down the stairs.”

“Come with me, governor?” Milva asked.

Anna Henrietta nodded. “My men will stay here and assist with the defense of the lower floors. Dandelion and my sister will accompany me.”

“Governor,” Damien said, “Let me protect you.”

She shook her head. “You are wounded. Stay here and support the others.”

Dandelion cradled his guitar to his chest and followed the women up the rickety-looking stairs, praying that the next earthquake would not strike and bring them all down.

Angoulême started when she heard a knock on the door. Eithné had just started to drift off, wrapped up in the crocheted blanket, cookie wrapped scrunched in one hand. Angoulême had given up checking her phone and simply watched Eithné’s eyes flutter closed. The knock jerked her out of the mess in her head.

“Who is it?” she said, getting to her feet.

“Help me.” A woman’s plaintive voice. “There’s no place to hide and my baby is crying. Please, please, let us in.”

Angoulême turned the handle and opened the door a crack, peering out. She caught a glimpse of a pretty blonde woman before the door slammed hard into her head and chest, knocking her back. The woman pushed in, grabbing for her, but Angoulême scuttled backward on the carpet and kicked her hard in the thigh. “Back off, bitch!”

The impact brought the woman down. Her long nails dug into the carpet and she gasped. Angoulême popped up and sprang for a weapon. There was a knife on the drying rack she’d noticed earlier. Not silver, but maybe it’d work. She grabbed for it, but the tip caught on the rack and the whole thing toppled over, spilling dishes.

Eithné screamed from the couch. Angoulême turned, brandishing the knife, but the woman was already on her feet, flying at her. Angoulême’s knife skidded down the woman’s shoulder, cutting skin. A hand like an iron manacle closed around her wrist, forcing the knife away. She was incredibly strong and her weight pushed Angoulême back into the counter. Her lips lifted in a cruel smile, showing the points of fangs. “You’re coming with me.”

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” Angoulême said. She stomped hard on the inside of the vampire’s foot with the heavy heel of her boot.

Something crunched at the impact and the vampire cried out, stumbling back. But her grip on Angoulême’s wrist only tightened. Angoulême sucked in a breath at the pain of the pressure. Her shaking fingers dropped the knife.

Eithné jumped off the couch and attacked the vampire from the back, little hands hitting and clawing at anything she could reach. “Let her go!”

The vampire just turned and knocked her to the floor with a swinging elbow.

Angoulême cursed and squirmed kicking at the vampire’s legs without much leverage.

“Keep fighting me,” the vampire sneered. “I’ll just break the little one’s neck. You’re the only one we want.”

Eithné sat on the floor, crying. She had a red patch on her cheek where the vampire hit her.

Angoulême stilled, heart racing. “Fine. Take me. Leave her alone.”

Unceremoniously, the vampire dragged her out of the room and out into the gallery. She walked with a limp, dragging her injured foot. Her free hand went to grip the back of Angoulême’s neck, sharp fingernails digging in. “You will bring me great rewards, pitiful prey.”

“Yeah, maybe you can use them to buy a headstone,” Angoulême hissed, “because my friends are gonna bury you.”

Time slowed as Geralt launched into battle. The Black Blood flowed thick in his veins. Sparks of spells sang through the air around him, lighting up the moon-bright glen by the old pine tree. The purple pulse of the Yrden circle surrounded him. Ciri stood at his back, her sword raised.

But the Unseen Elder was a whip of silent death. Somehow, he’d extruded a casing of sleek, furrowed armor the color of newly-spilled blood. It covered his long, spindly body and no number of fireballs from the sorceresses had any effect on him. Philippa cast her blue net of power and the elder ripped through it as though it were a cobweb. He smashed through their shields and sank his teeth into the neck of the nearest woman, taking a great pull of blood before the others drove him off. He disappeared like a light winking out. The sorceress crumpled to the grass.

Geralt threw a silver bomb, filling the air with glittering sparkles. It allowed him to see a flash of movement before the elder materialized in his circle, clawed hands reaching for Ciri. Geralt swung swiftly. His silver blade screeched a hard cut across the crimson armor but the vampire didn’t even seem to notice.

Ciri wisely flashed away, leaving a blurred green trail behind her as she sped up the hillside. The elder snarled and lunged after her. Geralt threw a blast of Aard at his back. It nudged him forward, but didn’t topple him. The elder didn’t even pause in his pursuit. As soon as he stepped out of the purple circle, he disappeared again.

“Ciri!” Geralt shouted.

She streaked down the hillside, back to the protective ring where the sorceresses were trying to strengthen their shield once more.

Another sorceress fell. One moment she was standing there, speaking the spells and the next, the elder was tearing out her throat.

Screams from her sisters filled the air. They threw colorful flashes of spells that barely seemed to slow the unseen elder down. Yen cast a tangled star around his feet. But it splintered to pieces as soon as he moved.

Ciri moved swiftly to Geralt, eyes darting desperately. “Nothing is working,” she gasped.

Before Geralt could reply, the elder appeared in their glowing purple circle again. They both swung at him with their swords, aiming for gaps in the armor. He just laughed and slammed his forearm into Geralt’s ribs. It felt like getting hit by a car. Geralt fell to the ground, pain booming through him, struggling to get air into his lungs.

The elder closed one red-gloved hand around Ciri’s throat, lifting her off the ground. Her sword clattered uselessly against his armor. Her eyes bulged out in her face and her legs kicked wildly.

Geralt forced himself to his feet. He shoved his hand under the back of the elder’s helmet and poured all his energy out. A stream of Igni blasted from him, filling the helmet and burning Geralt’s hand through his glove. Smoke poured out of all the crevices and holes. The elder made a sound like a coughing whine and dropped Ciri, jerking away from Geralt’s touch.

Not invincible, Geralt thought just before the vampire struck him.

He didn’t see it coming. Five long claws tore through his armor and buried completely into the left side of his chest. Geralt didn’t even feel the pain at first. He looked into hollowed eyes, smelled the stink of burning flesh. He tried to bring his sword up. The vampire turned his head, sinking fangs deep in Geralt’s neck. With a sudden jerk, the sharp teeth ripped open his artery.

Chapter Text

Milva charged up the stairs with Dandelion, Anna Henrietta, and her sister in tow. She held her gun at the ready but she didn’t see any monsters yet. At the top, voices came from the entryway to the children’s area. The people there did not appear to be in any distress.

Milva turned to the sign pointing them to the art gallery. Then a familiar angry screech drew her attention to the hallway with the elevators. A petite blonde woman was limping and forcing a very annoyed teenage girl to the elevator doors. She had one hand wrapped around Angoulême’s wrist and other on the back of her throat.

“Hey!” Milva shouted, raising her gun. “Let her go!”

They looked toward her, but the woman didn’t release her captive. She jabbed at the buttons between the elevators.

“Vampire!” Angoulême yelped. “Shoot her, Aunty!” She dropped her weight, angling her body away and giving Milva a target.

Without hesitating, Milva shot woman in the head.

Anna Henrietta gasped. Dandelion made a whimpering sound. The woman slumped to the floor with blank eyes. A pool of blood spread out around her face like a halo.

A few people emerged from the nearby rooms to see the source of the shot. Milva didn’t have time to deal with them.

“Where’s my daughter?” she demanded.

Dettlaff chased the silver-haired vampire for some time, weaving between cars and through buildings. They tangled several times. Dettlaff opened gashes on his opponent’s back and chest. But he couldn’t do enough damage to bring him down. He couldn’t rely on his bruxae for help. They were too intimidated by another higher vampire, so he left them inside the void.

The silver-haired vampire led him all over the downtown. They crashed through streetlights and smashed into cars. Then they were back at the edges of the void. The enemy vampire laughed. “You’re too easy to lead. Too much time spent—”

Dettlaff cut him off with a hard crash into the pavement. They grappled there before Dettlaff thrust his claws up under the vampire’s chin, through the roof of his mouth and into his brain. He twisted hard and felt the other’s life drain out. It was a heavy thing to kill another of his kind. But his anger was so bright that he hadn’t even thought of it.

Somewhere nearby, a jubilant sound rose from many throats. Howls and shrieks rang through the city square.

Dettlaff rose and peered out. The anchor nearest him was a wreck of warped metal. The one beyond it looked even worse. And alps and bruxae and katakans were flooding into the square in flares of darkness. The void was down.

He roared, summoning his bruxae. They followed him into the chaos of rushing vampires, ripping and tearing. There were far too many to turn back and he couldn’t cut through the influence of the Unseen to order them away. But he and his bruxae would give the attackers a reason to fear. Dark joy tinged the thickening desperation inside him. He gutted an ekimmara and beheaded an alp. No doubt other higher vampires were coming too. They would taste his claws and fangs.

Yennefer watched the attack in disbelief, a spell dying on her lips. A terrible sound tore out of her throat. The Unseen Elder released Geralt and he fell to the grass, blood spurting out of his neck in thick pulses. Everything slowed to a dark blur. The vampire turned to Ciri who was still crouched on the grass, throat swollen with his finger marks. Her eyes were fastened with silent horror on Geralt.

“Get back!” Philippa shouted hoarsely. “We can’t stop it!”

Geralt clamped a hand on his neck and made one push to get up but the blood flowed heavily between his fingers. He choked, trying to speak, and fell back to the ground, face contorting. Then his expression stilled. The stream of blood running from his throat slowed to a trickle.

Ciri screamed. It started normally, then rose to a hyper-sharp intensity. The vibrations of her grief filled the air with green light. Splitting pain cracked Yennefer’s head and she saw the others hunched and hurting as well.

The vampire reached toward her, but his movement was slow and labored like a man bracing into a hurricane. Streams of wild light rolled off Ciri. Her eyes were white and empty, her mouth open like a sepulcher.

Warm blood trickled from Yennefer’s nose over her lips. I have to stop her, she thought, but she couldn’t move. The white-hot waves of power battered her brain.

The Elder struggled closer. The tips of his long claws brushed Ciri’s forehead. The scream stopped.

Yennefer almost collapsed with the release. But power still swirled around Ciri. She pushed to her feet in a smooth motion and lunged at the vampire. Green-white light blasted the clearing, rocking everyone off their feet.

When she could see again, Yennefer rushed forward. Geralt lay alone in the grass. There was no sign of Ciri or the Unseen Elder, only a short, blackened furrow in the earth.

Yennefer dropped to her knees and poured her healing power into the wound on Geralt’s neck, but the blood barely seeped out now. His heart was naturally slower than others, but even witchers could bleed to death.

Triss appeared at his other side, murmuring spells to close the punctures in his chest. Tears glistened on her face, but her voice was steady. At Geralt’s head, the vampire Regis knelt, freed from his paralysis. He opened his satchel and quickly pulled bandages and materials out.

Yennefer searched for a thread of life inside Geralt, but his pulse was so slow she couldn’t feel it. Then, deep inside herself, she felt the elemental bond between them snap like a taut thread cut. Pain reverberated in the hollow of her chest. A sob rocked through her.

“No,” Triss whispered. But she knew it too.

Geralt was dead.

On the rooftop garden near the cemetery, Regis knelt before a weathered planter box. The spring sunshine warmed his head and back. With tiny clippers, snipped the stalks of the wolfsbane, thinning their lush growth. The heavy purple flowers filled his basket. He’d make ointments with some and dry the rest. They kept their color, even when desiccated, and could be used in various decoctions.

A cool wind rustled the plants and brought the scent of fresh tar from the paving project two streets away. A motorbike rumbled up the hill. Regis sat back on his heels and gazed into the distance. The trees in the cemetery were bright with new leaves, almost neon-green. Under them, the groundskeeper rode his lawnmower in neat lines, cutting down the grass fed by the recent rains. The growl of the engine made Regis think of summer.

A raven landed on the edge of the planter box and clacked her beak gently. Regis set down his clippers and stroked his fingers over her glossy head and down her back. The raven preened happily. She didn’t have anything new to report. She just wanted to see him.

“Uncle!” Angoulême’s voice bellowed from below. “Customer!”

The startled raven hopped away and launched into the air.

Regis stood and brushed bits of wolfsbane off his trousers. He walked to the stairs and descended into the shop.

At the closest facing shelf, a rangy, muscular man studied the jars of infused oils. He looked up and met Regis’ gaze. A long scar crossed his brow and cheek and a shorter one stretched near his temple. He had snow-white hair down to his shoulders. Half of it was pulled away from his face and tied in a tail at the back of his head. His eyes, under black brows, were the color of lemons and the thin pupils inside them gave him the look of a lazy lion. The silver wolf-face medallion hanging down over his t-shirt was the clearest giveaway.

Witcher, Regis thought with a rush of excitement streaked with fear. Is he hunting me? But the mutant had no swords with him or any other visible weapons. He wore a t-shirt and jeans, no armor. Surely he would have prepared for an encounter with a vampire.

“Hello there. What can I help you find?”

“Arenaria,” the witcher said in a low, rumbling voice.

Of course. It was a common ingredient in many witcher elixirs and decoctions. Regis asked if he wanted it fresh or dried, then went back up the rooftop garden to fetch the flowers. His mind raced and bounded with elation. Witchers belonged to stories in books! He’d never seen one in the flesh. A flood of questions filled his mind. But he couldn’t show how much he knew; it would raise suspicions. Slowly, then, and very, very carefully.

He returned with the arenaria. Introducing himself and shaking the witcher’s hand sent another current of pleasure through him. The witcher, Geralt, had a firm, callused grip. His palm was warm, his smile was friendly, and there was no trace of deception in him.

When he left with his purchases, Regis watched him all the way down the sidewalk until he climbed into his car and drove away. The afternoon sunlight streamed in through the window, lighting up the dust motes in the air. At the bar, Angoulême tapped away at her computer, mouth quirked upward. The quiet of the shop sank in again.

Regis sighed and thought to himself, I hope he comes back.

Triss watched helplessly as Regis worked. He forced his interlaced hands hard into Geralt’s chest, the heels of his palms thrusting a steady beat to wake Geralt’s heart. Geralt’s body rocked with the force of Regis’ compressions, but his face remained slack, open eyes staring emptily at the sky.

Regis counted aloud quietly. His face was wiped clean of emotion, black eyes like tinted glass. His shoulders tightened into a knot with each movement. When he reached the end of his count, he leaned down and sealed his mouth over Geralt, hand on his jaw. He exhaled a deep breath and Geralt’s chest gave a phantom rise.

Triss slotted her fingers under Geralt’s jaw. Still no pulse. His wounds had closed, but he’d lost too much blood. His heart wouldn’t beat.

Regis resumed compressions. His eyes shut. He whispered something in a language Triss didn’t know. His shoulder blades moved rapidly like blunted wings on his back.

Yen stood a few feet away, arms wrapped around herself. She had been that way since Philippa and the Lodge left them. She looked lost, beaten. But she hadn’t cried.

No matter, Triss had cried enough for both of them. Tears still spilled out of her eyes. Mucus clogged her nose and throat. It isn’t fair, goddammit.

“Yennefer,” Regis said in a soft voice. “I need your help.”

“What?” Yen croaked. “What the hell can I do?” She blinked reddened eyes, mouth drawn back in a painful grimace.

“You can produce lightening, yes? I need a little jolt of electricity in his heart.”

Yen gaped at him. “It would cook him from the inside.”

“No,” Regis said, still not slowing the movement of his arms. “You can control it. Just a little, like lighting a spark, directly here.”

She trembled. “I can’t.”

“Yen,” his voice was sharper now. “You can. Look at him. His brain has no oxygen. It’s dying. Nothing you do will make it worse.”

She moved closer, knelt down, still shaking. “I don’t know…”

“Listen to me.” His voice gentled to a soothing cadence. “You have the ability. Breathe deeply. Now, when I count down and lift my hands, give him a pulse of electricity, lightly, like you’re trying to startle him awake.”

She nodded, eyes beginning to flood with tears.

Triss moved back, holding her breath, hoping, praying, begging silently. Melitele, Lebioda, Eternal Fire, help us!

When Regis’ count ended, Yen laid her hand on Geralt’s chest and spoke a word of power. A blue-white spark flashed from her fingers. Nothing happened.

“Stronger,” Regis said. “Again, a little stronger.”

Yen said the word with more force. Geralt’s back jolted off the grass and fell back down.

Yen pulled her hand away, frightened. For a second, it seemed to have no effect. Then Geralt jerked again, coughing. His head snapped back. His body convulsed. Regis held him still through a long coughing fit where his lungs seemed to pull in air at a frantic rate.

Triss covered her wet face with her hands, sobbing with relief.

Angoulême sighed and rubbed at her bruised wrist. It was hard to feel sorry for herself when Milva was there hugging Eithné close. Now that the dramatic reunion was over, Dandelion was telling them all about battling vampires with his guitar and Rhena was checking her phone impatiently.

From the corner of her eye, she saw someone enter the gallery and looked up. It was the blond vampire, returned from the dead. The back of her hair was still dark with blood, but the bullet hole in her head had disappeared.

The higher vampire raised her lips to brandish her fangs. “Your little castle has fallen. Now we play on my terms.” Her face morphed into a demonic gorilla’s snarl and her nails grew into long claws.

“Fuck,” Rhena groaned.

Milva rose, lifting her gun. “Guys, take Eithné and run.”

Behind the vampire, two more materialized, flashing through the wall. One was a grayish woman with long red hair. The other had sunburn-bright skin and swirling black hair.

Angoulême grabbed Eithné’s hand, but the void was down and she couldn’t see anywhere to run.

Rhena lifted her gun. “You know who I belong to? You know what he’ll do to you?”

The redhead laughed. “Do you know what the Unseen will do to traitors like him?”

Suddenly, an invisible wave seemed to pass through all three vampires. They swayed for a moment, then steadied themselves. Angoulême hadn’t felt anything, but it was clear something had changed. They all looked shocked and confused.

“The call is gone,” the redhead gasped. “The gate is closed.”

The blond vampire looked incredulous. “But we have the key!” She gestured to Angoulême, like that made sense.

The dark-haired vampire shook her head. “We were mistaken. The key is lost.”

The blond cursed loudly. Angoulême wondered if she should cover Eithné’s ears. Then all three women flashed out of the building in smoke and shadows and rippling air.

In the silence that followed, Dandelion coughed and cleared his throat nervously. “Does anyone know if there’s a restroom on this floor?”

When the call came in that the monsters and vampires were retreating, a cheer erupted in the library. Eventually, they herded everyone out of the building. Angoulême knew the employee access codes so they could open up the staff stairways and elevators

They found Cahir and Damien in the lobby surrounded by the carcasses of vampires and a hulking basilisk. Cahir looked like someone had taken a cheese grater to one side of his face and he had an impressive collection of cuts and bruises. But he had escaped serious injury. Damien was less fortunate; the basilisk had cut him deeply in the abdomen. He was quickly transported to the nearest hospital.

Dettlaff sent the rest of the vampires away, his influence no longer overridden by the power of the Unseen Elder. The city square was a wasteland of broken tiles, collapsed tents, shattered anchors, and fallen bodies. Most were monsters, but Nilfgaard had lost dozens of troops in the defense. At least the citizens streaming out of the library and City Hall were unharmed.

As the people of Beauclair stumbled away from the carnage back to their lives, the stars faded out and the sky turned bluish-gray with the approach of the morning sun.

Geralt didn’t remember the portal or the hospital. He remembered Regis insisting, forcing him to drink an elixir—White Rafford’s decoction, he realized when he tasted it. It went some way to easing the pain and sensation of broken parts inside him.

When he woke in his own bed, an IV line in his arm and Regis sitting by his side. It was a weird echo of the time he’d been laid low Philippa’s curse, so much so that he expected to taste White Gull on his tongue.

“I hoped you’d wake up soon,” Regis said with that subtle smile of his. “Please don’t try to move. Triss and Yen closed your wounds, but there’s internal damage still healing. Your lung was punctured, your ribs were broken, and you lost an extensive amount of blood. Also, your hand was badly burned.”

Geralt tried to speak and his voice cracked. He swallowed a mouthful of spit. “I’m alive and the world didn’t end?”

“Ciri eliminated the Unseen Elder,” Regis said. “You did die, but we brought you back. Yennefer saved you.”

Geralt’s head still felt thick and cloudy. “How’d Ciri do it? Is she all right?”

Regis lowered his head, hands clenched together. “I don’t know. She removed him from this plane of existence. Maybe she took him through the gate or to another world. We haven’t seen her since.”

“What?” Geralt tried to sit upright and pain shot through his chest.

“Please don’t move,” Regis said. “You will heal quickly. We are searching for her every hour. Yen and Triss scry for her constantly. She has a very distinctive power signature. When she appears, we will find her.”

“When she appears,” Geralt repeated. “You don’t think she’s dead?” The pain in his chest burned like the phantom claws of the Unseen Elder.

“I have hope,” Regis said. “It is all that sustains me.”

Geralt took a deep breath trying to calm the storm of fears inside himself. It just made his chest hurt more. “Until I’m mobile again, hope will have to do.” He reached out his uninjured left hand to Regis.

Regis hesitated for a second, then closed his fingers around Geralt’s.

Geralt frowned. “What’s going on? Watching me die give you second thoughts?”

“No,” Regis said with another gentle smile. “I’m not sure if you noticed, but Yennefer says the jinn’s bond broke when your heart stopped, and it has not returned.”

“Hm.” Geralt reached out his senses, picturing her in his mind. Sure, he still thought she was smoking hot—you’d have to be a week-old rotting corpse not to—but he didn’t feel the aching tug drawing him to her. “Whew, I guess it is gone. That’s one less thing on my plate.”

Regis nodded and looked like he wanted to say something but didn’t.

“Regis,” Geralt said warningly. “Don’t even think about telling me to try things with her again. Blast it out of your brain. Throw it in the toilet and flush it down. I’m not listening to any more self-denial.”

Regis laughed softly, looking a little embarrassed. “I’m not used to this yet. Please be patient with me.”

“Used to what?” Geralt asked, wondering. “Being in a relationship? Being loved?”

Regis’s hand clutched tightly at his. He lowered his eyes. “Yes,” he breathed. “Yes, yes.”

Regis knelt in the garden, planting tiny arenaria seedlings. The spring sunshine warmed his head and back. A gentle breeze shook the row of young mandrake plants and fluttered the delicate leaves of the moleyarrow stalks.

Just up the hill near the house, Milva and Cahir were replacing some of the cracked flagstones in the path leading to the door. Geralt and Eithné supervised from their camp chairs, drinks in hand. The wounds in Geralt’s chest and neck were healing well and he was gaining mobility, but Regis still hadn’t approved him to do heavy lifting. He wanted to ensure that none of the new tissue tore under strain. He was just grateful that Geralt hadn’t suffered any noticeable brain damage in the time his heart had stopped.

Eithné said something to Geralt, resting one ankle on her knee, like he was. Regis sometimes worried that the terror that she had witnessed during the siege would scar her psychologically, but after a few nights of sleeping with the light on, she seemed to have reverted to her regular fearless self. She sipped her soda and leaned back in her chair, mimicking Geralt’s posture.

Somewhere in Corvo Bianco, Angoulême was probably hunched over her computer. She’d enrolled in dual courses in video game programming and fashion design and seemed determined to get top marks in both. Although she’d never struck him as particularly studious, she had a stubborn tenacity that would serve her well when applied to the proper situation.

Regis turned his attention back to the seedlings. He still had half a dozen left in the plastic tray waiting to be planted. Squeezing one free, he loosened the root-bound clump of soil and placed in carefully into the divot in the earth. Gently, he spread loose dirt over the exposed roots, then pressed down, seating it firmly in the bed near its siblings. When they were all planted, he’d sprinkle them with water to give them a good start in their new home.

Something rippled in the air, bringing him to attention. His senses tracked a blur in the distance. His eyes caught movement down the driveway. A figure appeared, moving slowly—a thin young woman with white-blond hair. She walked with stiff steps, making her way toward the old white house.

Regis rose to his feet, dizzy with the realization and hardly able to believe it. Ciri was home.

After the shock, the reunions, the tears, Ciri finally surrendered to Regis who bundled her off to the bathroom to clean her half-healed wounds. The Unseen Elder had left deep claw gashes in her thigh and across her ribs. Two ribs were broken, Regis said, which she had guessed for herself. It was still hard to breathe.

She had never before transported anyone, when she moved between worlds. She’d brought objects with her, but not people. Somehow, the proximity of the gate or the blind fury of the power in her had managed to force him into another world. She’d only had a glimpse of a damp forest before he slashed into her and she desperately transported herself again.

In her hurry and injured state, she couldn’t calculate where she’d land and she found herself on a cold, rocky beach, bleeding heavily. With the last of her strength, she’d crawled to shelter under a tree and bound up her wounds as best she could with strips of her hoodie.

After shivering through the night, she was found by some locals who appeared to be fisherwomen. They couldn’t communicate but they brought her back to their hut where she lay on the straw and shook with fever for an unknown number of days. Her hosts gave her fish broth and water and dressed her wounds with poultices. But it still took weeks before she was able to stand, and even longer before she had the energy to move between worlds. All she had was time to hurt and heal and grieve. There was no doubt in her mind that Geralt was dead. She’d watched him bleed out, paying the price for saving her.

But even as she reeled with the emptiness echoing inside her, she also longed for Yen and Triss. She couldn’t leave them behind. And the others, all of Geralt’s friends, who had been so kind to her, were mourning him too. She’d go to them and take responsibility. She’d held the place in her mind—the green hills and the scraggly vineyard and the white house with the big windows. Safety. Family. With all her strength, she’d pushed herself there.

Two Months Later…

South of Beauclair, in the Sangreal Amphitheater, the concert was about to begin. Heavy bass music vibrated through the wide space from towering speakers. Shrill screams of excitement rose from hundreds of throats. Geralt fought the urge to cover his ears. Ciri just bobbed her head with the beat of the music. Even Angoulême was swaying a little. All around them, girls, women and a sprinkling of men crowded close to the stage. Only the scowling security guards kept them from climbing onto it.

When Dandelion finally strolled out into the lights dressed in a black leather jacket outlined in rhinestones, the screams became deafening. Geralt did cover his ears then. He didn’t care if it made him look like a cranky dad. He was a cranky dad. He started to envy Milva and Cahir for staying home with Eithné.

Beside him, Regis smiled and put a comforting hand on his lower back.

Dandelion swung his guitar in a move that was clearly practiced, but kind of neat. He threw his head back as he strummed the first cord. It must have been a song that they all knew, but the people around Geralt were losing their minds, howling and leaping up and down. Almost all of them had their phones out and were frantically trying to take pictures and videos.

As Dandelion launched into his first song, the light display around him flashed and blended colors. Geralt tried to scan around for Anna Henrietta, but she was probably backstage. He figured she’d probably come out at the halfway point of the concert and give some kind of speech.

Regis’ leaned in close to speak in his ear. “Are you paying attention to the lyrics?”

Geralt frowned. “Do I want to?”

The “Rebuild Beauclair” benefit concert was Dandelion’s first performance of his new album, The Witcher Chronicles: Part One. The singles “Night of the Fanged Fatales” and “The Last Wish” had been in heavy rotation, or so Geralt heard. He never listened to the radio, but everyone he knew took great delight in telling him all about them.

Currently, Dandelion was singing about the noble witcher’s quest to slay the beast of the filthy depths, a reference Geralt could only guess was the zeugl in the sewers. There was no slime and shit in Dandelion’s version, which made it all seem so simple and straightforward. Sometimes Geralt wished his hunts were more like Dandelion’s stories.

It actually wasn’t a bad song, music-wise—kind of fast synth rock with a metal edge. Dandelion’s electric guitar solo showed obvious skill and sent the crowed into a frenzy. He had pretty serious dance moves too, for a guy who was singing and strumming at the same time. Geralt found himself drawn in, despite his misgivings.

When the song ended and the riotous noise of the audience had finally died down, Angoulême turned to Ciri, eyebrows scrunched together with disbelief. “Is Dandelion actually kind of…cool?” she asked, scowling.

Ciri laughed.

As the background music softened, Dandelion let his guitar hang from the shoulder strap and stepped to the edge of the stage. “I love you, Beauclair!”

A barrage of applause answered him.

Dandelion raised his arms, his handsome face projected on the huge screen above him. “Recently we faced the most terrible night in our history. We continue to mourn those who fell in the devastating attacks and celebrate those fought so hard to protect us. This album was inspired by one of those protectors.”

Cheers and whistles and wild clapping. Geralt instinctively hunched down a little, although he didn’t look much like the artistic rendering of a noble witcher on the cover of Dandelion’s album.

“Now it is time to rebuild. Our city square, our library, our roads and buildings damaged by the earthquakes. By simply buying a ticket and being here today, you are contributing to the recovery efforts. But if you have a little more to give, just text the amount to this number.”

The digits flashed up on the big screen and Dandelion read them off. There were so many phones out, it was hard to tell if people were actually texting.

When the lights changed, Dandelion threw off his jacket, set his hands on his guitar, and burst into the next song. The crowd danced with him, surging and bobbing like waves in a sea. Ciri and Angoulême eventually got caught up in it too, and bounced along, grinning. Ironically or not, they seemed to be having fun.

Geralt slid an arm around Regis’ shoulders and pulled him closer. The familiar scents of herbs and earth drifted up to him through the surrounding haze of sweat and perfume and beer. Regis’ head tilted up to his and it was so easy to lean in and kiss him. Everyone was too distracted to notice, and probably wouldn’t care anyway if they saw two old guys making out.

Regis’ mouth opened easily into his, with a little sigh of satisfaction. They kissed leisurely for a while, blocking out the thundering beat and the jostling bodies around them. Then the music changed again to something slower and Regis eased away.

Dandelion began the ballad of “The Last Wish,” the story of the witcher’s love for the sorceress and their fiery affair. There was something sad about it all, even just as a snippet of his life re-written and polished into a pretty story. The entire amphitheater sang along with the chorus. “To be in your life, to stay by your side… All I have lost is now justified.”

Regis turned, moving behind Geralt. He pressed himself into Geralt’s back and wrapped both arms around his chest, hugging him from behind. His face pressed between Geralt’s shoulder blades. The weight of his body settled into Geralt like a soft comfort. A sigh moved through him.

Geralt covered Regis’ hands with his own. They rested on his chest over the crescent of puncture scars, over healed bones and flesh. He remembered the tearing of his throat and the hot avalanche of despair, knowing he’d failed. And Regis, paralyzed there, had watched him die. He couldn’t imagine what that must feel like. He didn’t want to.

Here, in this loud, dark place, they were alive. Regis’ head lifted and he rested his chin on Geralt’s shoulder. His lips pressed against the thick scar tissue on Geralt’s neck. It made Geralt shiver and wish they were alone so Regis could take him apart slowly. Only recently had Regis lifted the moratorium on sex that was anything beyond Geralt lying on his back, getting a blowjob. Not that Geralt didn’t love getting blowjobs, but he’d been starving for a good hard fuck. And when he’d finally got it, on his knees, gripping the headboard of the bed while Regis worked him up to a frenzy, the explosive orgasm nearly put him in a coma. He’d actually passed out for a second, really freaking out Regis. But it was just from the pleasure.

The music seemed to be vibrating his bones with the shuddering speakers. Geralt started to sway a little, just to feel Regis’ body move against him. They rocked slowly. Regis’ breath made a moist, warm spot on Geralt’s neck. His groin pushed into Geralt’s ass. His fingers spread on Geralt’s chest, massaging into his skin. Geralt sucked in his breath when a thumb brushed over his nipple.

Then Regis exhaled hard and drew away, moving to stand beside him again. It was probably for the best, Geralt thought with reluctance. Unlikely that anyone would see them humping in the dark crowd, but Ciri and Angoulême both had sharp eyes, and what if Dandelion spied them from the stage? Ugh.

They made it through the first half of the concert and Anna Henrietta’s speech but that was it. When the next song started up, Geralt’s eyes met Regis’ and the heat in them dragged away all his self-control. He gave Ciri and Angoulême money for a ride share or taxi, but advised them to hit up Dandelion for his car service.

“Sorry to leave. We’re just really tired,” Geralt said, faking a pretty good yawn.

“Uh huh,” Angoulême said. She snatched the money out of his hand. “Nighty night, then. Don’t forget to use protection, you horndogs.”

“Actually—” Regis started to say but Geralt stopped him before he could launch into a lengthy explanation of how witchers and vampires didn’t transmit STIs.

“Have a good night,” Ciri said, a twinkle in her eye.

They drove to Regis’ shop because it was closer and empty. On the way there, Geralt thought about how lucky he was. Ciri didn’t seem to mind that he hadn’t gotten back with Yen. She’d developed a lot of respect for Regis and they often had long conversations about magic and monsters and the various planes of existence.

In the aftermath of the thwarted apocalypse, Ciri had made some compromises. She’d agreed to spend one week with Emhyr in Nilfgaard each month, to placate him. She’d also spend one week with Yen, who was back to working with CEOs and millionaires. Geralt had agreed to have dinner with the two of them once a month, to keep in touch. He was glad that Yen seemed to have perked up with Ciri back in her life. She’d regained her usual glossy confidence and verve. However, Yen and Geralt kept a kind of careful distance around each other these days, which made him relieved and a little regretful. Perhaps in time, they could be comfortable enough to argue good-naturedly or share a hug without any self-consciousness. Someday.

Triss reported that the Lodge had dissolved into a loose collection of sorceresses after losing three of their members to the Unseen Elder. Philippa’s eye was on Kovir now, busy solidifying her power there. The remaining sorceresses had launched their own project to rebuild their school of magic. Triss devoted herself to this undertaking, excited to train the next generation of mages. Yen had even agreed to tutor and lecture part-time, which made Geralt a tad nervous, remembering how teaching Ciri alone had tested her patience.

Dettlaff and Syanna had embarked on a long tour, traveling from Nazair to Skellige and through the Blue Mountains. Dettlaff needed a break from the resentful vampires of Toussaint and Syanna needed to avoid Beauclair law enforcement. They’d decided to make the best of their exile and see the world.

The streets of Uptown were quiet tonight. Geralt parked Roach just outside Herbs and Remedies, now covered in tiny blooming vines. The flower buds were closed tight at night and they looked like tiny yellow shells. Regis unlocked the door and let them into the dark interior. Geralt’s eyes adjusted, taking in the rows of shelves full of jars and bottles and books.

As the door clicked shut, Regis went to him like a swooping hawk. He backed Geralt into the end of a shelf and kissed him hard. Their teeth clicked together. Their tongues touched. Geralt licked the tips of Regi’s fangs, feeling that sweet-sharp mixture of danger and arousal.

Regis purred into his mouth, long fingers sliding up under Geralt’s shirt to scrape at the sensitive skin of his sides and belly. Regis licked the scar on his neck, tongue tracing the thickened tissue there. The wet touch made Geralt tremble, caught between the tinge of fear and the building hunger. He pushed his fingers into Regis’s hair, cupped the back of his head and held him there. Regis pressed his mouth closer, sucking the tender skin and the long tendons of Geralt’s neck.  It brewed a thick heat in Geralt’s groin. When Regis’ hand slipped down to cup him there, Geralt pushed into his touch. It was ridiculously good just to feel the pressure of his hand through layers of fabric.

They had to pull away briefly to undress. Geralt made sure the blinds were drawn and the door was locked. When he turned, Regis was behind the counter, bending to grab a bottle on a lower shelf. He wore only a long dress shirt, half-unbuttoned, and the back of it rode up his thighs as he bent, revealing the curve of his ass.

As Regis set the bottle of oil on the counter, Geralt moved to him, leaned over his back. He rested his chin on Regis’ shoulder and nuzzled his ear.

“Here?” Regis said, breathing a soft laugh. “You really want to associate this bar with copulation?”

“I’ve been imagining bending you over like this for a while now,” Geralt admitted. “No new associations for me.”

“Very well,” Regis said, pushing back against Geralt’s pelvis. “Just try not to think about this when the others are present.”

Fair point, Geralt thought muzzily. But he was too far gone to reconsider. He yanked down his boxers so he could feel all his skin against Regis. Just grinding slowly into him, skin and muscle, made them both groan.

Geralt grabbed for the bottle of oil and used it to quickly prep Regis, marveling at the clench of muscle and the inner heat. Regis braced himself against the smooth wood of the counter. His long white back had a graceful curve. Geralt ran his free hand up the stretch of Regis’ spine, to the back of his neck. He curled his hand there, feeling the soft brush of downy hair and the vast strength submitting to his touch.

When he finally pressed inside Regis, he could hardly believe the feeling sweeping over him. This powerful creature who could have anything he wanted was opening to him willingly, eagerly. Regis gasped and arched into him. Geralt wrapped one arm under Regis’ chest, holding him close. Each small thrust brought them away and together.

Slowly, their desire built to a fast, shuddering rhythm. Regis made small, rough sounds low in his throat. His arms tensed against the counter.

Geralt pushed his face into the back of Regis’ neck and abandoned himself to the fever of motion, hips jerking. Regis gave a low shout, tensing, then softening beneath him. Geralt let go, felt the world disintegrate into the crush of skin and sweat and dark ecstasy.

Eventually, they both slid off the counter to the floor, which was cool and steady and solid. Geralt leaned against Regis, still breathing hard. “Just give me a minute,” he said, head still spinning with the intensity of it. The scents of the herbs and teas drifted him, a familiar comfort.

Regis combed his fingers through Geralt’s loose hair. “We should rise and dress in case Angoulême decides to come home early.”

“Early?” Geralt scoffed. “The show will go for another hour. And I bet Dandelion will give them the VIP tour after that.”

“You’re probably right,” Regis said. “Still, you appear rather weary. Perhaps we should go up to bed now.”

“Weary?” Geralt said, lifting his head and raising his eyebrows. “I’m just gathering my strength for the next round.” He pressed his thumb to the part of Regis’ lips, feeling the hard shape of one long tooth. “Give me ten minutes. Then I need you to spread me out and fuck me like it’s the end of the world.”

Regis’ lips closed around his thumb. His dark eyes pulled at the hot coil inside Geralt’s chest, unraveling him completely.

“I can change,” Gerald had told Yen once, in the middle of a fight.

She had laughed in his face. Of course, he hadn’t given her any reason to believe it up until then.

“You were molded in stone when you were eleven years old,” she’d said. “You haven’t changed in the last seventy years. Why would you change now?”

“Because I love you,” he’d said furiously.

“And did you not love me before? We’ve known each other for decades now. Still, we repeat this charade again and again. Nothing changes.”

“Some things will,” he’d insisted. “I can be a different person. You know I can.”

Why was Geralt standing in a musky high school auditorium in the middle of the day, facing down seventy hostile-looking police officers, SWAT members, and detectives? Sometimes he asked himself questions like these, as he stood on the stage and fumbled with the slideshow on his laptop, trying to figure out how to get in presentation mode. He could feel the impatience and resentment rolling off the crowd of law-enforcement sitting in uncomfortable plastic seats.

“Let me,” Cahir said, taking the computer from him. “I’ll show the slides. You do the talking.”

Geralt wiped his sweaty hands on his slacks and straightened. He’d rather be fighting a full-grown fiend than talking to this crowd. But witchers were nearly extinct and someone else had to step into the gap. When monsters attacked, these people had to know what was up.

The first slide popped up on the projection screen: a photo of a bipedal creature with wrinkled reddish-gray skin, long arms equipped with claws, and gnarled lobes on the sides of its head. Its mouth was open slightly, showing long fangs. Not the best picture, but the only one he could snap before the thing attacked.

The crowd had gone silent, eyes wide as they studied the terrifying vampire.

“This,” Geralt said, “is a garkain.”

Later that evening, as the sun fell below the far mountains, Geralt climbed the hill to the cemetery and leaped over the fence. He still wore his slacks and dress shirt, but he’d brought the strap to carry his swords.

The trees were all thick with leaves that rustled like whispers. The falling sun lit up the long grass around the headstones. Caretaker needed to bring out his weed-eater, Geralt thought.

He circled the fence line, then strolled between the mausoleums. His medallion shook, warning him. He slowed and unsheathed his silver, easing slowly around the mossy wall. In the shadow of the crypt, she crouched, waiting with wide white eyes.

When the grave hag sprang at him, Geralt hit her hard with Aard, knocking her back against the wall. Before she could recover, he slashed over her sagging torso, splitting rotten skin. She lashed out at him with long fingers tipped with talons, tearing his shirt but missing the skin. He thrust his blade up under her throat and through her head. She died with a gurgle, dribbling blackish blood down to his hilt.

Withdrawing his blade, Geralt turned, looking for something to wipe it on. He met the dark eyes of the vampire in the shadow of the tree behind him.

“Regis,” he murmured, “You like watching me fight, huh?” He walked to the tree, still holding his wet sword.

Regis gave him a warm look. “It’s always a pleasure to watch you in action. But I also like to be on hand for the rare occasion when you may require assistance. You always seem to handle them well on your own.”

“Well, my wardrobe suffered a casualty,” Geralt muttered, plucking at the wide rip across the front of his shirt.

“Yes, I’m afraid you may need to bury it,” Regis said. “How did your presentation go?”

Geralt shrugged. “It was okay. They had plenty of questions. Cahir helped a lot. I just got an itch to go hunt after it was over.”

Regis eyed his formal outfit with a smile. “I suspect it helps relieve your stress and contributes to your sense of meaningful action. But do you think this consulting work may be a worthwhile parallel career path for you?”

“Maybe. I’d like to do more hands-on work, though. Anna Henrietta wants to set up a special task force for dealing with monsters. And Milva and Cahir are talking about setting up field trainings, teaching people how to fight these things in the real world.”

“I wouldn’t recommend monster safaris,” Regis said. “But learning is best done in a practical setting.” He reached out and touched Geralt’s torn shirt, tracing the edges of the split fabric. “I have no doubt your work will fascinate people. Danger always increases excitement.”

Geralt dropped his sword in the grass with a grin. “Regis, are you excited?”

Regis sank both hands into Geralt’s shirt and smoothly ripped it apart.

Later, lying in the grass between the raised roots of a tree in a graveyard, Geralt remembered himself. He eased off Regis, who lay on his side, half asleep. Their skin was sticking together and Geralt would no doubt have to pick bits of grass and dirt off his ass before he got dressed again. Luckily it was only a short walk to the shop, so he could do it shirtless (though he’d never hear the end of it from Angoulême if she was there).

He searched around for his slacks and found them hanging off the back of a headstone. Well, the dead wouldn’t care. Thankfully this section wasn’t visible from the street. He just hoped no goth kids would be breaking in tonight.

He dug his hand in a pocket and pulled out a little packet of paper wrapped and taped. It didn’t even have a box, but whatever. Just a trinket from a street fair vendor.

Regis sat up, curling his legs under him. Naked in the moonlight, he looked particularly unearthly. His pale skin glowed. His black eyes drew Geralt to him.

Geralt sat down beside Regis and gave him the little brown paper packet. “Got this for you. It’s not…it’s just a little something.”

Regis’ eyes widened. He cut through the tape with a long nail and unpeeled the layers of paper. In the center was a plain black ring, polished to a shine.

“Volcanic rock,” Geralt said. “Obsidian. Not enchanted or charmed, you know.” He realized how useless it seemed now. “I just thought you’d like a ring, since you don’t have any. Um, if you don’t like wearing things on your fingers, you could loop it on a cord or chain.” Now he was babbling. Why did it seem like such a big deal all of a sudden? He’d just seen the ring laid out on a table, surrounded by other pieces of unusual jewelry, and thought of Regis’ elegant hands. It had made sense then. Now it seemed like he had stumbled into doing some kind of shitty proposal out of nowhere.

Regis turned the ring between his hands, running his fingertips over the surface. He didn’t say anything, just touched it carefully, eyes intent. Then he lifted it and tried it on his fingers. It was too big for most of them but slid over his index finger and seated snugly against the second knuckle there.

“Thank you,” Regis breathed, still staring at it. “A gift from you…” His voice choked off.

“Aw, Regis,” Geralt said, feeling relieved and embarrassed and touched all at the same time. “You gave me a magic bronze amulet to protect me. Don’t act like I booked us cruise tickets. It’s just a ring. I’m really glad you like it, though.”

Regis’ hand lifted to Geralt’s face and stroked down from his temple to his jaw. His eyes were black lakes bright with stars. The cool, hard band of the ring trailed over Geralt’s skin like a cold kiss. It’s not just a ring, Geralt realized. He turned his head and pressed his mouth against Regis’ palm. Then he took Regis’ hand in both of his. The obsidian, warming to his touch, felt like a smooth, strong seed nestled between them.

A raven lifted off from the tree in the cemetery and swooped down the hillside. The night air was full of sounds—crickets and cars and the hum of distant aircraft. Beetles were scratching in the rotten stump. The street lamps buzzed. A slinking cat’s eyes shone in the light of a passing truck.

The bell-tower of the old church held a single harpy egg. The storm grates on the south side of the neighborhood hid the nest of a necrophage. The abandoned plywood playhouse sagging in a neglected backyard was the home of a moon-eyed godling.

The raven soared up, over the roof garden with all the neat plants in their neat squares. She beat her wings, rising higher. From here, she could see everything: the winding streets lined with vehicles like hard-shelled insects, the tiny heads of people walking down the sidewalks, the spindly young trees in their narrow cages reaching out with new growth. And in the distance, the lights of the city caught her shining eyes. They stretched out before her— a glittering cloak of scattered gems flung to the far horizon.