Solving the Vampire Murders

forty-five

Faris watched as the coven formed a protective ring around Clint and Mandy's dearest friend. Just as he'd intended, the drug paralyzed Torren, and his magical ability to protect himself, so Clint could use the cursed blade and amulet to trap his magic.

A simple cut, a blood magic incantation long forgotten, and a vessel—that was all it took.

Although Faris had always known the consequences of the drug he spent three years researching, somehow seeing it put to use was a different matter.

Clint wasn't just performing this ritual out of duty—he was enjoying it. Taking as much pleasure in drawing magical blood as Faris would in sipping a Cheval Blanc.

Licking his bloody fingers after the spell was complete.

Once the magical amulet was burning with warm white light, Torren's limp body was tossed aside. Drained of something more precious than blood. More rare and wonderful to behold. The Gift of Magic.

Pandemonium exploded in the confines of the lounge. The Practitioner's fury and the vampire's jubilation crossing like swords.

The once quiet space had become a swampy pit of violence—Dante's fifth ring of Hell here on Earth.

Torrents of fire, lassos of water, and bolts of light. A dense layer of smoke blanketed the ground. The visual horror merely a backdrop to the sounds. Beastial snaps and growls. The clang of dissimilar metals and natural elements locked in combat.

The current state of battle was untenable, Faris knew that. Centuries of experience with crude warfare had taught him that few would survive, and of the remaining few, even fewer would come to an accord. And wasn't a poorly constructed agreement the impetus of this fight? Drawn long ago by those who would never have to deal with the consequences.

Distasteful and cowardly.

The silver binding Faris' wrists withstood his every attempt to leverage strength against the paralytic qualities of the metal. It would take more than his immortal strength to slip free of the bonds and find Mandy.

It was all for naught if Clint took her immortality away just to spite him. The bloody bastard ran off as soon as the ritual was completed, and he had his prize.

"Don't worry," Clint had cawed before taking his leave. "I'll be sure to tell my buyer he can keep your sister as a toy."

It was impossible not to feel what he would describe as psychosomatic pain. Pain that came from knowing a horrible truth rather than physical injury.

In the end, it was his friend, a trusted ally who had cleaved his heart in two. Faris had been unable to keep the separate elements of their long-time friendship from turning volatile.

Faris pushed down the despair that threatened to take him, instead eyeing the broken body lying a meter away—discarded like an animal specimen. The incision to Torren's neck was superficial but close enough to the carotid arteries to be of concern. As the pandemonium around them continued, Faris slow crawled to avoid drawing unwanted attention.

The separation of a Practitioner and Gift was considered by most to be a fatal parting—occurring at the time of death—but perhaps it didn't have to be. Perhaps death wouldn't have to come for the boy who meant so much to Mandy.

The delicious scent of fresh blood made the task painstakingly difficult. The slow drip from the wound impossible to ignore. In order to keep perspective, Faris shifted his perception of the blood from edible to medical. The cut would need to be cleaned with antiseptic and stitched.

With his hands still bound, Faris crept forward.  Inching closer.

"Where do you think you're going?"