Bellowing banging.

  That was what, after days, weeks, months, or perhaps even years, finally pulled Ash groggily out of bed. The chill in the room helped jolt his tired mind into some semblance of function. He shuffled to the door that was rudely disturbing his deep dejection.

  “Oi! You need to get out of the room!”

  The boy vacantly stared at the pot-bellied, pockmarked older man, trying to figure out the reasons for such a sudden disturbance of his woes. The disturbing man, or more accurately, their landlord, Buster Billings, was a landlord of rather poor eyesight, especially when it came to assessing the age of the occupants of his rooms for rent. He compensated for the poor eyesight by overcharging the poor for the rooms.

  “The rent is paid,” Ash murmured, his voice rough from disuse. “Leave me alone.”

  “The rent is paid till today. Get out.”

  “I can pay you now,” the boy offered indifferently, trying to find the will to move but unsure where to look for it.

  “Nope,” Buster shook his head. “Already rented the room out to someone else. They’re paying me double.” The landlord smiled a my favourite fair is laissez-faire smile. “Care to triple it?”

  “I don’t have that kind of money.” Ash blinked slowly. “How-”

  “No?” Buster cut him off. “Then get out. You’ve got ten minutes, or I’ll get the Bruisers Guild boys to help you pack.” He laughed, the sound harsh in the narrow hallway, and slammed the door in Ash’s face, shaking the cracked frame. Ash twitched.

  He packed slowly. Methodically. A few items in a satchel, a single change of clothes, one of Alby’s old shirts he’d refused to throw away.

  Ash conjured a handful of blueberries. Alby’s favourite. He walked across the room and gently placed them beneath the pillow Alby had once slept on.

  They’ll get crushed. Good, he thought. Let them stain.

  He took one last look at the room they shared. It was a simple room: two beds on opposite sides of the room, two chairs on opposite sides of the table, and one window that couldn’t be opened.

  Moments later, Buster appeared with seven new occupants already jostling at the doorway. None of them paid any attention to the pale, lanky boy with ginger curls and eyes too old for his face, wrapped in a ragged grey cloak, as he slipped past them in the hallway and vanished into the streets.

  Ash wandered aimlessly through the town with a vague awareness of, well, everything. His thoughts were blank for the most part, except for the occasional appearance of an elusive thought that he should find somewhere safe to sleep tonight.

  He had some money, but Buster was the only one in town charitable enough to rent out rooms to the unwanted ones without extra flesh fees. Options were there, though quite limited. He knew of Alby’s friends, even if he’d never met them. He knew of his disgraced, mad uncle, though he was avoiding that meeting. And there was his family, the reason Alby had hidden him in the first place. So, two options. Neither good.

  Faced with the paradox of choice happily waving at him, Ash walked away. In the opposite direction.

  His thoughts grew dim as his feet took over. A carriage nearly ran him over, and instead of fear, he found himself thinking he wouldn’t have minded if it did.

  Somewhere, buried under the fog in his mind, a vague memory surfaced: a painting of a drowned woman. She’d looked peaceful. Well rested. That was all he wanted now. Rest. Stillness. Unfortunately (or fortunately), Hartwick had no drownable rivers. No rivers at all, just ankle-deep mucky streams full of rats. Besides, he could swim.

  The boy tilted his head up toward the sky, hoping the clouds would whisper a better idea. They didn’t. He did, however, remember a story of a woman throwing herself from a turret. He looked around, looking for a suitable turret. All he saw was a drunkard trying to piss on a house but pissing on himself, a persona non gratis flashing her tits to the passers-by, and few rats squabbling over a bloated pigeon. No turrets.

  The battlements. They were high enough above some gates to act as a stand-in for a turret. He could just see how it feels.

  Ash pulled his hood low and made his way through the streets. Whenever he passed a shop that offered tasty-smelling food, his stomach pleaded with mournful growls that went unanswered.

  Gate Periwinkle 641 opened into a perfectly round plaza painted with a rippling pond. Red and white fish with flowy fins swam lazily through the water, while the people crossing the square jumped, hopped and tiptoed around the fishy fishes. The townies believed the beautiful fish to be cursed and dire tragedy would hound anyone who stepped on them.

  Ash stepped on a few.

  Reaching the steps to the battlements, he met a few friendly guards who threatened to throw him in gaol if he didn’t piss off.

  He pissed off, wandered again, slipping through gate Lavender 45, which led into an alley roofed with arched glass painted in storm clouds. The clouds moved, dark grey and brooding, and now and then discharged a bolt of lightning. Harmless, unless you were a bald man over fifty-five. The townies had discovered that much by accident, and the older, balder men gave the gate a wide berth.

  The darkness and quiet settled firmly into the streets as Ash’s legs refused to continue. He found the first nook he could in some shadowy alley and slumped there, conjuring a pear. Alby loved pears.

  ***

  Five young, slightly inebriated gentlemen went into the alley on their quest to find fun, but the quest was interrupted by a rogue pear.

  “Looksee!” one of them shouted, pointing at the motionless Ash.

  “Is it a girl? Is it a boy? Is it a toy?” another chimed in, his voice a sing-song.

  “Most importantly,” a third grinned, “does it have a hole?”

  A bulky one tugged at Ash’s face, jerking him awake. “I’m certain it does.”

  Ash’s mind snapped into clarity, but his body was slow. He pushed weakly at the boy, but it was no use. The others quickly surrounded him, and in an instant, fists started flying. They kicked at his ribs, his stomach, and his head. Pain exploded with every strike, and blood filled his mouth. He tried to protect his face, but his body betrayed him. The blows to his stomach and kidneys left him heaving. Ash managed to get up on all fours, retching, but only more blood came up.

  “Aww, look at him, he knows how we want him!” one of his attackers said gleefully as another pushed off Ash’s cloak and started ripping his pants off.

  Terror jolted through Ash as he felt them undressing him. The panic cleared his mind in a heartbeat, the haze of pain lifting. Ash could take a beating; he was raised on a strict weekly schedule of beatings, he wouldn’t even be opposed to getting killed, but this... rape... was something else... no... he cannot let them...

  With great exertion, Ash got his gooseberries in order and conjured a bunch of watermelons beneath him that propelled him upwards. While an unorthodox defence tactic, it did knock his attackers off his back and off balance. They stumbled, some landing with loud thuds on their arses, dazed and confused.

  Ash wobblily found his footing, spat out a couple of teeth, and even though everything hurt like hell and he couldn’t see out of one eye, he started staggering away from the alley. Behind him, he conjured more fruit; watermelons, pumpkins, quinces, badly instructing their stems to make a mess that he hoped would slow down his shouting pursuers.

  Bloody, beaten, and mostly pantsless, Ash stumbled toward a respectable-looking townhouse. On the brink of collapse, he banged on the door with frantic desperation, ignoring the fact that it was the dead of night.

  The door swung open, revealing a tall, muscular man with waist-length ginger hair that shimmered and shined like fire in the dim light. The man, dressed in turquoise shorts, held a pair of scissors.

  “You bonkers boy?! What the fuck do you want?!” the man shouted at the boy that was more blood than a boy.

  “Uncle. I need help, please,” Ash rasped, his voice barely more than a whisper, as he dropped to his knees, one brown eye spilling bloody tears.

  The man frowned. “Uncle?! You’ve got the wrong house, you bloody idiot.”

  “Uncle Ignatius. Please,” Ash whispered before crumpling to the ground, his body giving out completely as he fell face first onto a welcome mat.

  The man’s face twisted with a cocktail of disbelief and annoyance. “Fuck.”

  Iggy carried the boy into the house, his movements rough but careful, and laid him on the kitchen table. Bastian, his loved one, had already deduced the reasons for the disruptive door banging and had prepared the bandages, boiled water, and was now meticulously arranging a selection of healing salves and ointments on the counter.

  “Do you want me to call for a healer?” Bastian asked.

  “Which one?” Iggy muttered.

  Bastian paused. “Yes, I think Greta would be the best choice given the situation. I shall fetch her,” he added, hurrying out of the kitchen.

  Iggy began cleaning the blood from the boy’s face. As he wiped away the mess, the boy’s features slowly became recognisable. Reluctantly, Iggy admitted to himself that the boy was a spitting image of his cunt of a brother.

  The boy was mostly cleaned by the time Bastian returned, leading Greta, with her ever-present companion, Hex, hovering behind her like a mean shadow.

  Greta took one look at the broken boy and cursed. “Fuck, Iggy, I’m not a bloody healer. There isn’t much I can do.”

  “You’re the closest thing we’ve got to one since Edith got killed. Just do what you can.”

  Greta clicked her tongue, taking in the extent of the damage. “Shit.” She stood beside Ash, gently assessing his injuries. “I don’t think anything major is broken, thank fuck. I don’t know how to deal with broken crap.” She took a moment to think before continuing, her voice softer now. “It’s mostly cuts, bruises, a few missing teeth, and cracked ribs.” She paused, looking at Bastian, then at the supplies. “Honey-laced bandages on the bleeding wounds, witch hazel salve for the swellings and bruises, and wrap up his ribs?”

  “I concur,” Bastian said, already moving around the kitchen, gathering the necessary supplies with calm efficiency. “And once he’s sufficiently recovered, we’ll get him to a discreet tooth mage.”

  ***

  Ash opened his one still-functioning eye and glanced around the homely room. Wrapped in bandages, he was lying on suspiciously soft pillows and beneath a wonderfully warm comforter. He was dead.

  He wasn’t dead. The pain throbbing through every part of his body insisted on it.

  The idyllic haven, or the room, if you will, had green wallpaper featuring delicate ornaments, mahogany furniture, and, opposite the bed, a fireplace that crackled with warmth, flanked by two tan leather armchairs and a small tea table nestled between them. The idyllic setting, however, was disturbed by the persistent pain radiating through his entire being and by the faces of the two men sitting in the armchairs, looking rather distraught.

  One man was his estranged, disgraced uncle, Ignatius. The other bore a striking resemblance to Mr Brooks, the town librarian. Ignatius had his ginger hair in a messy topknot, was dressed in an elegant ecru shirt and pants, topped with a gold-embroidered vest. The possibly librarian sat next to him, dressed in black, with dark hair shaved on the sides and longer on top, flipped to one side. His blue-grey eyes looked troubled, and a slight stubble dusted his jawline. Both men were barefoot, apparently, as slippers were not welcome in this household.

  Their gazes were fixed on him as they patiently waited. Ash wasn’t sure how to approach the situation, so he took a few deep breaths and tried the family standard: “Respected Uncle Ignatius, I apologise profoundly for the disturbance I have caused in your esteemed househo-”

  “We don’t use snobbish slang here. Try again,” Iggy retorted, rolling his eyes.

  Bastian lightly slapped his thigh. “Excuse my beloved. He’s rather adamant about avoiding proper manners.” After a pointed glare at Iggy, Bastian turned to Ash with a softer expression. “My name is Bastian Brooks, and we welcome you to our home. Now, dear boy, how are you feeling?”

  Ash glanced between them, feeling completely out of his depth. His upbringing had done little to prepare him for such prying questions. Alby had once said that sometimes it was best to just speak the truth, so he did, admitting with a flush of embarrassment, “Everything hurts. Even my hair.”

  “Very well,” Bastian replied, his tone gentle. “I’ll get you some food for strength and tea for the pain. Iggy can handle the hair.” He smiled softly at Ash and then grinned at Iggy before stepping out of the room.

  When his uncle stood, Ash flinched, unsure of what to expect next. But Ignatius merely patted him on the head. “There. Your hair’s fine now,” he said, before returning to his seat and studying Ash.

  “Um… Thank you?” Ash mumbled, still struggling to process the confusing turn of events.

  Iggy sighed, deciding to try easing the boy into talking. “What are you doing here, beaten one?”

  “You’re my father’s younger brother,” Ash answered curtly, desperately trying to think of a cunning way to change the subject, but his mind politely declined as it was already preoccupied with a multitude of worries.

  “No shit,” Iggy shot back, eyeing him with not at all hidden suspicion. “I doubt you were sent to kill me. Showing up half-dead at my door in the midnight hours would be a pretty miserable attempt.” Tilting his head, he smirked. “Actually, scratch that. That wouldn’t even be the dumbest plan our family ever came up with to kill me.”

  His voice grew colder, louder, harsher. “Maybe you were sent to spy on me? On us? Now, that sounds like something my brother would do. Beat the shit out of his child and send him in as a mole. Who cares if he gets killed? He’s got spares.”

  Calming down a bit, he rubbed his throat absently, staring out of the window. “I figured they gave up on killing me when my father died.”

  After a few moments, he turned back to Ash, harsh once more. “So, why are you here?”

  Ash sighed, resigned to whatever fate had in store for him. He desperately hoped his uncle had a kernel of kindness hidden somewhere amidst his madness and wouldn’t throw him back into the streets. Looking nervously at Iggy, he said, “I didn’t know what else to do. I got scared. Really scared. And Alby… um… and I hoped… maybe I could hide here. I heard about… about what happened to you. You were disowned, right? For disgracing our illustrious family with behaviour unbefitting our respected position. I’m a disgrace too. Your banishment was made official some thirty years ago, but I’m not officially banished. Still… I can’t go back. I thought maybe you could help me. Maybe.”

  Iggy burst out laughing, and in his fragile state, the sudden outburst scared the shit out of Ash.

  “Disgrace?” Iggy asked, still amused. “Is that what they call it? What a wonderfully innocuous word.” He laughed louder, much to Ash’s growing terror. “What our illustrious family lacks in intelligence, it makes up for in an abundance of arrogance.”

  “Iggy. You’re scaring the boy,” Bastian entered the room, carrying a tray filled with food and tea.

  “How far did you come in comparing your not-so-fun family tales?” he asked as he sat down with his tea after setting the tray next to Ash and handing Iggy a cup.

  Iggy, still laughing, answered, “Apparently, my family disowned me for being naughty. You, dear one, live with a naughty disgrace that has amazing hair, but a disgrace, nonetheless.”

  “Yes, but you do make for a delightful disgrace,” Bastian replied with a wink, “I wouldn’t exchange you for any of the other disgraces, not even the discounted ones.”

  Iggy made a mock aww face, then turned back to Ash.

  Ash, much to his surprise, discovered a bit of liquid courage along with pain medication in the tea. “They didn’t? I mean… you aren’t?” He rubbed his aching head. “Ouch.”

  “Perhaps you should explain it to him?” Bastian suggested. “The outrageous ouchies might be impairing his cognitive abilities.” He gestured at Ash. “Drink the tea, boy; it will help disperse them.”

  Iggy sighed dramatically. “When my magic revealed itself, my parents decided it was better to drown me than suffer the shame. Such an immensely powerful family of fire mages, as ours, couldn’t allow the stain of having a fucking hair mage born to them.” He looked at Ash, then added with a grin, “If they came at me now, I’d just give them hideous hairdos or ingrown pubic hairs and call it even.”

  Bastian placed a gentle hand on Iggy’s shoulder. “It’s fine, love. Their loss is my gain.”

  The silence that followed was abruptly broken by two pineapple-sized gargoyles who flew into the room, chittering, “Chop-chop, you two! We’re going to be late!” One wore a top hat and a monocle, the other had swirly stone curls. When the monocled one noticed Ash’s battered state, he squeaked, “Oh my!” and promptly fainted, landing on the comforter with a soft thud.

  Bastian jumped up and carefully gathered him into his arms. “All is well, fainty one! Or thereabouts.”

  The other gargoyle landed next to Wurm, lovingly caressing his wings with a worried expression on her stony face. “It’s fine, honey. I will always protect you from harm!”

  When Wurm finally came to, Iggy introduced them. “These are Wurm and Fringe, our gargoyles. Gargoyles, this is my newly discovered nephew… um, what’s your name, boy?”

  “Ash. Ashes, but I prefer Ash,” he said, offering a toothless smile as wide as he could manage with his mangled face. He’d always wanted to meet one of the famed gargoyles, and now he was meeting two. It lifted his spirits a bit and helped him relax. Gargoyles were known to be of the kind ones, so there was some hope for him yet.

  Wurm, still a bit dazed, cleared his throat and said, “I am rather sensitive and abhor violence, so tend to faint occasionally when faced with it.” Bastian gave Wurm a fond glance. “But don’t let him fool you, he’s still a fierce protector of the household, and most importantly, our cherished one.”

  Fringe flew over to Ash and settled beside him. “Why are you here, Ash?”

  While he searched his mind for an appropriate response, her gaze darted to the food tray in search of a stealable snack.

  The gargoyle gasped, eyes widening in horror. “What cruelty is this?! Is he, our prisoner? Are we to torture him with a bland breakfast?!” She looked at Iggy and Bastian, aghast.

  “No, Fringe,” Iggy said patiently. “No one is torturing him.” Then, muttering under his breath, “Yet.”

  Bastian added, “Ash had a rough night, and we’re trying not to upset his stomach. Also, he’s missing a few teeth, so... soft food.”

  “And your solution is oatmeal?!” Fringe frowned, shaking her tiny stone head. “Without even tiny bits of strawberries?! The horror! What is truly unsettling is that after such a difficult night, he is denied juicy fruits!” She paused dramatically, then gestured at Wurm. “We need juicy fruits for ourselves, too! We’re having an unsettling morning.”

  Wurm nodded solemnly in agreement.

  Ash smiled and conjured a delicious-looking strawberry. “Here you go, feisty one. Would you like some other fruit, too? What’s Wurm’s favourite?”

  Fringe’s eyes widened in awe and admiration. “We’re keeping him!” she announced to Iggy and Bastian. “Juicy fruits mage! Weeeee! Wurm likes dragon fruit. Can we have papaya too? And raspberries?” She clapped her tiny hands in anticipation, staring at Ash expectantly.

  Ash chuckled warmly and conjured the requested fruits: dragon fruit, papaya, and a handful of berries. Wurm flew to him, bowed his head, and began to munch contentedly on his dragon fruit.

  “You are Alby’s elusive fruit mage! I was trying to find you, and now you’re here... and you are kin. How wonderful!” Bastian grinned. “Yes, we shall most definitely keep you!”

  Still munching, Wurm chimed in between bites, “I wholeheartedly support the motion!”

  Iggy tilted his head thoughtfully. “Well, that explains why you’re here. Doesn’t explain how you aren’t dead, but we can circle back to that later.”

  After a moment, he nodded and smiled a soft, sorrowful smile. “It’s settled, then, you’re staying with us. I mean, if you wish to do so.”

  Ash, in addition to all his previous worries, was now also struggling to wrap his mind around that little exchange. Is it a trick? A test? It makes no sense. He whispered uncertainly, “Really? Just like that?”

  Bastian gently confirmed, “Yes, just like that. Regrettably, we are aware of your illustrious family’s disposition toward... disposing of the unwanted ones.”

  Iggy took a few long sips of tea, trying to banish the melancholy from his face with a wide smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “It might take you a while to get used to us. We aren’t inclined to put the ‘fuck’ in dysfunctional like the Castors.”

  The gargoyles, sensing Ash’s unease, landed on each side of him and nuzzled into his neck.

  Thinking about his family and what the boy must have gone through put Iggy in a grim mood. He was having a hard time controlling his emotions, despite his best efforts to pretend otherwise. He wasn’t as sure as he tried to make out that what his family had done to him didn’t bother him anymore, or that hideous hairdos would make up for it. Therefore, the tone of his thoughts accidentally slipped into his voice when he asked, “What happened to you?”

  Bastian immediately warned, “Iggy,” and then turned to Ash with more gentleness, “You do not need to tell us everything, or anything at all, if you do not wish. Only if someone is coming after you, so we can prepare.”

  Ash nodded, took a deep breath, and thought for a moment. Then he began to speak about Mr Billings and the alley attack. But once he started, it was like a dam had burst. “On my 11th birthday, the family elders traditionally gathered for the revealing of power, and when I... um, conjured a plump plum instead of flames, they... they beat me, and, um... defenestrated me.” He started trembling, and the gargoyles hugged him more firmly. “Alby and I have been living together for the past year and a half or so. He found me, helped me, and kept me hidden from my parents. He went on a quest, and when he didn’t return, I knew... I knew he was dead.”

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Wurm sniffed, his voice low and filled with emotion. “I have profound negative emotions for your family, Ignatius dearest,” he said, huddling closer to Ash, with Fringe doing the same.

  “You are safe here with us,” Bastian assured, his voice soft but firm. “Or as safe as you’d be anywhere in Hartwick. First, you shall heal, and then we’ll deal with the rest. Relax, dear boy, it is always an absolute pleasure of mine to despatch anyone who threatens the unwanted ones.”

  He smiled affectionately before clapping his hands cheerfully. “Very well, that’s settled then. Tea, anyone?”

  ***

  The five of them spent the rest of that day, and most of the following days, talking and getting to know each other. Ash found himself enjoying Bastian’s outgoing nature, and thanks to it, he wasn’t as intimidated by Iggy’s occasional mood swings. He even began to think of Iggy as his favourite uncle and, after a while, entertained the idea of copycatting his rebellion on their upbringing by taking up swearing. However, he quickly realised that he really didn’t like to curse.

  Bastian, on the other hand, became his favourite uncle-in-law, and with him, Ash rediscovered his love for reading and stories. Bastian eagerly brought many of his favourite books for Ash to the point where his room got overcrowded with them, but Ash loved it. In the evenings, he read the stories aloud to the gargoyles. They especially enjoyed a rare manuscript about wee creatures called hobbits, and Fringe quickly became a passionate advocate for the implementation of a second breakfast, naturally one that included juicy fruits.

  Wurm and Fringe hardly ever left Ash’s room, and he was grateful for it. Their company, endless chatter, and cuddling tendencies helped ease the darkness that had been weighing on him. They shared many tales, but his favourite was the love story of Wurm and Fringe, which, in turn, helped Iggy and Bastian fall in love as well.

  As it happened, Wurm had seen Fringe one day at the market and fallen desperately in love with her. Not being well-versed in the art of gargoyle courting and a bit on the shy side, he and Bastian devised a plan to get him closer to her, which included Bastian becoming a regular at Iggy’s Incredible Hair Salon. Though Iggy mostly catered to the ladies of Hartwick, he didn’t mind giving an occasional shave or cut to the more fashionable gentlemen. Eventually, he found himself feeling quite giddy on the mornings when Bastian had an appointment, and so did Fringe.

  After the gargoyles decided to marry, Iggy, Bastian, and the gargoyles spent countless hours discussing locations and accommodations. Ultimately, Fringe declared that she preferred staying in the attic, which Iggy had transformed into a gargoyle-sized mansion for her. Wurm and Bastian then moved in, and eventually Bastian moved from the guest room into the main bedroom.

  A few weeks later and a visit from a discrete tooth mage, Ash was feeling much better. He still desperately missed Alby, but being surrounded by people and gargoyles who cared for him had a remarkably positive effect on both his mind and body.

  ***

  Breathe. Too deep. Too slow. Too fast. Don’t twitch. Don’t smirk. Blink. Too fast! Too slow! Concentrate! No! Don’t show emotion. Look at Mother, imitate her expression. Stop! Don’t stare. Don’t smirk. Breathe. Too loud. No, no, no! Don’t put your hands on the table. Hands behind your back. Why so stiff? Breathe. Too fast. Concentrate! Compose yourself.

  “Ember? You are confident enough to request such an important task? Are you sure?” Her father, Coctus Castor (aka Cocky), gave her a scrutinising once-over, narrowing his eyes. “You seem too confident. Do you understand the stakes?” Stepping back, he stroked his ginger goatee, considering. “Perhaps Aidan and Adara would be a better choice.”

  Ember Castor (aka Sparky) raised her gaze, meeting her father’s brown-red eyes. They were the same colour as hers. The whole family shared the same pale complexion, ginger hair, and lanky build. Not daring to blink, let alone shift her gaze, she projected an image of perfect composure and confidence, serene as the calm before a storm. “I can do it, respected father.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched. “Do you understand the consequences of failure?”

  Acknowledging his position in the family by lowering her head in submission, she responded, “I understand, respected father.” Coctus gave a shallow nod of approval.

  Breathe.

  Ember scanned the room, taking in the stifling grandeur of the House Castor consultation room. Despite its ceremonial designation, the space felt like a theatre of death. The walls were obsidian black, matte and cool, absorbing the light. Red accents, carved insignias, embroidered banners, and glowering ancestral portraits dotted the darkness, serving as reminders of their honoured history.

  Ember’s extended family stood in a spiral that mirrored their social standing. Her position near the head of the table, close to her father, offered her the freedom to ignore the lesser members. Heads dipped in silence acknowledged that she was to be deferred to. For now.

  Ember understood that her rank only carried her so far. She might command silence from the outer ring, but her proposal still required nods of approval from the inner circle: those born closer to the bloodline’s bloody flame.

  Breathe.

  Ember locked eyes with her oldest brother, Cole (aka Coco), the heir. When he gave a shallow nod, Ember almost exhaled in relief.

  Control. Breathe.

  Next, she stared down the twins, Aidan and Adara (aka Double A). Their approval would be welcome as they were part of the inner circle, but not necessary; she outranked them. They pressed their lips into tight lines. Good enough.

  Shifting her gaze, she looked to her mother, Seraphina (aka Philly), who stood beside her. Mother smiled warmly, as a mother would, pulled Ember into a firm hug and whispered, “I will personally slit your throat if you fail.”

  Ember kissed her mother’s cheek, poised and precise. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

  Her mother corrected sternly, “Would not,” then gave the final nod of approval.

  ***

  Ember crouched in the shadows on a roof across from the respected townhouse, watching the house that sheltered her disgraced uncle, Ignatius exilium Castor (aka Iggy). More than a year ago, the mad uncle had kidnapped her brother as revenge for his banishment, keeping him hidden ever since. The house also housed, according to the latest information, a librarian, of all things, whom her atrocious uncle lived with in sin, and Ashes (aka Ash), her younger brother, whom she was here to save. The dear one had undoubtedly spent the time since his kidnapping being tortured and manipulated into believing vicious lies.

  Ember caught herself, once again, playing with fire. Since Ash’s kidnapping, she’d developed the habit of twisting and turning a small spark of flame around her fingers whenever she felt particularly nervous, another thing she had to keep under tight control.

  As the moonless night presented itself, Ember carefully made her way to the townhouse’s back entrance. She’d scouted it the night before. It was well shielded from nosy neighbours, and the lock on the door was a simple one. Fighting the desire to check her most important possession and losing the fight, as usual, she paused in a shadowy nook, tapping her left pocket. She felt the glass vial inside. The precious liquid it contained was a memory potion, one that would erase the last couple of years of her brother’s life. He would forget the kidnapping, the torture, and the manipulation. She just needed to give him a few drops and return him to the safety of his family.

  Crossing the street and moving up a few alleys to get around her target, she stopped beside a bakery, its scent making her stomach twist. She tapped the vial again. It’s fine, no one is watching. Tap away. Several alleys and a few more taps of the vial later, she vaulted over the fence and crept through the lush garden toward the door.

  Breathe. Tap. Stop! No sparks. Breathe. Tap. Stop! Shaky fingers. Concentrate! Don’t burn too much. Slowly. Breathe. That’s it. Nice and slow. Breathe. Tap. Good. Good.

  Ember turned the handle, careful not to make a sound, and entered the house.

  Quiet. Listen. Move. Breathe. Tap.

  The stairs creaked beneath her feet.

  Stop! Listen. Slowly. Too fast. Too slow. The last room. Slowly. Breathe. Tap. Creak. Stop? Stop! Listen. Slowly. Breathe. Tap. Bollocks.

  “I do not believe we had any plans for visitors tonight. Isn’t it awfully late for an unannounced house call, anyway? Up!”

  Feeling the cold metal blade press against her spine, Ember slowly, carefully stood up, the blade nudging her upwards.

  Breathe. Tap. Naked man. Not naked. Half-naked. Tattoos.

  “Do not move, sneaky-peaky one. My blades are feeling extra frisky tonight,” the dark-haired man said in a bored voice.

  Breathe. Don’t tap. Don’t look at the blade. Black blade. Sharp. Two blades. Breathe.

  “Oh! Fuck me! Another one?! Why?! I really don’t like my fucking family. Why are we having so many fucking family reunions lately?! Why do they keep showing up here?! Are we cursed?” He narrowed his eyes at the librarian. “Has anyone stepped on a floaty finned fish lately?”

  Ember shifted her gaze to her disgraced uncle, Ignatius, standing in the hallway. He was dressed in lilac shorts and obviously mad as a heretical haberdasher.

  Breathe. He will burn me to a crisp. Madman. No? Not yet. Torture first. Blink. Breathe. Be brave.

  “What’s going on? Ember?! Is that you?” Ash’s voice sounded from the hallway. He poked his head out of his room. “What are you doing here? Are you hurt? Why didn’t you knock?” He stepped into the hall but made no move toward her.

  Brother! He is lost. He doesn’t know. Breathe. Tap. No! Don’t tap. Don’t tap! Blades. Breathe. Gargoyles? Why are they flying next to Ash? Why are gargoyles here, in this house of sin? Impossible. Trickery!

  “Very well,” the librarian continued, his gaze never leaving Ember. “How about we tie her up in the basement, and we can have a nice family intervention? Ash, I assume you would prefer to join us?” He kept the blade firmly at her throat while a gargoyle in a top hat tied her hands with a magic binding rope.

  Not trickery. Illusion mage? Ergot mage?

  The townhouse basement wasn’t what Ember expected. There was a distinct lack of dungeon vibes and torture devices. Those were probably kept somewhere else. The room was clean, serving as a storage space with a table and a few mismatched chairs. The dark-haired man tied her to a chair, placed the glass vial and the two daggers he found on her on the table, sat across from her, and watched.

  Tattoos covered his entire torso, reaching the middle of his forearms; probably his back too, maybe even his legs, though his pants hid that. The designs were intricate: small birds and symbols intertwined with larger, more complex patterns. Some of the symbols were familiar to Ember, resembling various types of letters, but the whole design seemed to flow seamlessly into something darker. The black symbols and birds meshed with colourful flowers, all done by an expert hand.

  Iggy tapped the table with his fingers, eyes flicking from the girl to the vial, then back to the girl. She was a few years older than Ash, the same pale, ginger, lanky Castor type, with the pretty vacant expression the family was famous for, thin lips and undeveloped smile muscles.

  She wore the standard-issue Castor outfit: black clothing with red leather accessories, as an ancient family dress code dictated. The code, devised centuries ago by one of his foremothers (probably pale, lanky, ginger, and obnoxiously condescending), was meant to project a fearsome public image. Of all the dress code rules Iggy despised, the ones that bothered him most were about hair length (shorter than a pinkie for men, and for women, no longer than their forearm), and the mandatory red-gold jewellery, adorned with, oh gods, rubies. The blind, batshit-crazy broad who wrote the bloody code had failed to notice it clashed with their delicate complexion, like, well, a ginger with the scorching summer sun.

  “Why the fuck have you broken into our home?” Ignatius yelled abruptly.

  “Iggy,” the librarian cut in smoothly, “calm down. Let’s try to be civil about this. Do not scare the girl.”

  Interesting. Breathe.

  The disgraced uncle grunted and waved at her dismissively. “Fine. You talk to her.”

  The librarian nodded. “Thank you. Very well then. Would you like to share with us the reasons for your surprise visit?”

  Breathe.

  After a few minutes of silence, he tapped his chin thoughtfully and looked at his lover. “That is a very decisive no.”

  Iggy gave him a no shit look.

  Breathe. Don’t show emotions.

  “Shall I, then, assume the reasons? Please blink if you agree. We are a very consent-oriented household.”

  Don’t blink. Breathe.

  “What a wonderful consent-giving blink!”

  Don’t twitch. Stay still. Breathe.

  The librarian took the vial from the table, uncorked it, and sniffed the contents. His brow furrowed. Around the table, the others waited for the verdict.

  “Wurm, would you be a dear-” Bastian didn’t even finish before the top-hatted illusion of a gargoyle fluttered out through the narrow doorway and returned moments later, carrying a small glass box with great ceremony. Inside, a shiny green beetle sat motionless. A delicate glass pipette was tied to the lid with twine.

  Puppeteering mage?

  The librarian drew a few drops from the vial, opened the box, and let them fall onto the beetle’s shell. A giggle followed a faint hiss of acid before the beetle shuddered with laughter, and the scent of garlic filled the air.

  Unperturbed, the librarian closed the box again, sealing in the still-laughing insect.

  Calm down. Breathe.

  “Arsenic,” the librarian mused. “Hmm. Interesting choice. A bit hackneyed, if I might say, but highly efficient. Did you plan to murder all of us or just your family members?” He held her with a cold, steady stare. “No, not all of us. If you wanted to kill everyone, you could have slipped the poison into food or water.” He paused, narrowing his eyes. “Just Ash? Yes, I would think so.”

  Tilting his head, he asked, “Why do you wish to kill your brother?”

  No! Trick. Liar! Liar! Control the eyes. Calm. Breathe. Don’t twitch. Liar. Breathe!

  After several minutes of silence, her mad uncle sighed. “Perhaps she came to kill Ash. Perhaps she didn’t know what was in the vial and was set up. One can never know with my family. Either way… fuck.” He rubbed his face, then turned his gaze to her brother. “Ash?”

  No. Liar. Kidnapper. Torturer. Liar. Breathe.

  Her younger brother had grown taller and thinner, the marks of torture written in the slump of his shoulders. He fidgeted with the hem of his shirt, torn between looking at her and avoiding her eyes.

  He’s trapped. Does he know? Does he remember? Is this his way of asking for help? Do something! What? Breathe.

  “Do you really think they sent her to kill me? My parents? My sister?” Ash asked, looking to Iggy, Bastian, and the gargoyles. His face and posture read sadness and bewilderment.

  No! No! Never! To save! Breathe. Don’t twitch.

  “Yes,” Iggy said.

  The puppet gargoyles nodded in agreement.

  No! Lies! Breathe.

  “We must decide what to do with her. There are a few-”

  A loud banging interrupted the librarian.

  Breathe. They are here. Salvation. Patience. Mind your mouth. Breathe.

  “I’ll get it!” the curly-haired puppet gargoyle shouted, flying away, and the nosy librarian hurried after her.

  Uncle Ignatius rubbed his head and tiredly leaned it back, clearly searching for serenity. He grumbled, “What the fuck happened to the fine tradition of spending the nights sleeping?”

  A few moments later, the gargoyle returned, whispering something to Uncle Ignatius that made him livid. With a loud grunt, he began issuing orders. “Wurm, go get Greta! Ash, stay with Ember! Don’t fucking release her!”

  He rushed out of the room, the gargoyles frantically flying behind him.

  Breathe. Chance. Concentrate. Call the flames. No! Concentrate! Pain. Breathe. Resist. Burn the chair. Pain. Concentrate! Breathe. Good! Good. Slow and steady.

  A respected townhouse suddenly found itself serving as the backdrop to a shitshowdown. In front of the house, two comely men stood shoulder to shoulder, black swords drawn, a gargoyle flying above them. The men, one red-haired and the other dark-haired, scandalously showcased their bare chests and feet. Across from them stood the noble Castors in their favourite battle formation; Lord Coctus at the front, flanked by Aidan and Adara, the disposable ones, who were juggling small fireballs. A couple of steps behind them were Cole and Seraphina; Cole, because he was the current heir, and Seraphina, because, despite being of a quite vicious character, was of quite weak power.

  “Disgraced brother Ignatius, I believe you have two of my young ones. I am here to see them returned.”

  “Deranged brother Coctus, I believe you simply have to go and fuck yourself.” Iggy smiled sardonically. Bastian barely held back a wayward chuckle.

  The Castors, not accustomed to being addressed in such an inappropriate manner, exchanged confused glances.

  Coctus opened his mouth to say something unlikely witty when he was interrupted by a shouted, “We’re here! Fuck! We’re coming!” Greta ran toward them with such haste that she skidded and collided with Bastian instead of stopping next to him. Hex floated into the formation with the usual elegance. Greta was panting heavily, Hex was pissed massively, and Wurm flew into the house hurriedly.

  Coctus frowned, made an exasperated throat grunt, and opened his mouth to say something unlikely witty when he was interrupted, again, by a shouted, “We’re here too!” Mrs Baker, who had been observing from her bakery, briskly walked toward the impending shitshowdown, wielding a peel that shed flour in its wake. Croquette, her muffin-sized gargoyle, swayed on her shoulder, gripping an earring and shaking a tiny fist threateningly, shouting in a sweet, melodious voice, “Beware, you bloody thugs for I’m nimble as a cougar and will grind your arses into Castor sugar!”

  When Mrs Baker and Croquette took their place beside Iggy, Coctus gave it another try. “I do not like to repeat myself. Return my young ones.”

  “I don’t mind repeating myself at all. Go fuck yourself.”

  Coctus puffed in disgust. “Then you will all burn.” With a twist of his hands, flames engulfed them. The rest of his family followed suit, and together, they moved forward in unison, well-practiced in their deadly dance.

  “Hex!” At Greta’s command, the ghost flew straight into Coctus’ face, grinning violently. She held up a small glass orb containing white smoke, gleefully cackling as she crushed it between her index and thumb. As the smoke began to swirl, she zoomed around like a party poltergeist, spreading it across the scene, ensuring every Castor got well smoked.

  When the smoke cleared, Coctus and his family were twisting and shaking their hands in flamboyant motions, desperately trying to produce flames, and failing miserably. The realisation hit them all at once. Their attempts were futile. Panic, thinly veiled beneath a layer of anger, spread among them.

  “Ahm. Ahm.” Greta stood directly in front of a fuming Coctus, her grin wicked. “That little ball that is affecting you right now, is a magic extinguishing ball, and I have a big fucking box full of them.” Coctus looked at his wife. Greta snapped her fingers at him. “Fun fact. The effect stacks. So, if you get your arse smoked by these wicked wee balls enough, it’s bye-bye, firebug.” She gave him a playful finger wave.

  “Now, be a good Coctus. Piss off. Go to bed. Or, go fuck yourself as your brother suggested. Whatever. Tomorrow morning, bright and nice fucking early, you’re going to officially banish Ash. At a no-nonces notary. Or... we’ll pay you a surprise visit. With more of our bad balls.” She bopped him on the nose with a casual flick.

  Coctus, even though a cocky cunt, actually had a moderate amount of self-control, and knew when the situation demanded a temporary tactical retreat.

  Unfortunately, the twins did not.

  Aidan lunged, hands reaching for Greta’s throat, but Hex was already on him, catching his wrist mid-air and slamming him to the ground, pinning him down with ease. With a deviant twist of his wrist, she turned him onto his stomach and continued by contorting the offending arm in a direction no arm ever desired to be contorted in.

  The sound that followed was a satisfying snap-snap-snap of bones surrendering to Hex’s pressure, much like the crackle of a fire. Aidan screamed like a manly banshee, but it didn’t seem to faze the ghost. In fact, Hex found the sounds of screams and snapping quite soothing. She continued her contortionist act, working on his other limbs with casual precision. Hex had always dreamed of joining a circus.

  Aidan’s unsuccessful attempt enraged Adara. As always, she happily followed where her brother led, for better or worse. Charging at Greta with daggers drawn, her manic battle cries filled the air as she attacked with all her fury. Bastian, caught on the wrong side of Greta, lunged in front of her to intercept. Adara’s blade found its mark, slicing a shallow wound across his back, but he managed to tackle the witch to the ground, halting the fire mage’s attack.

  Fringe, not about to let Adara wreak havoc, fiercely flew into the fray. With a daredevilish flight manoeuvre, she narrowly dodged Adara’s raised blades, her wing claw slashing across the fire mage’s left eye. Before Adara could react, Fringe pivoted, her claws dragging across the right eye as well.

  The shriek that followed was pure agony. Adara collapsed to her knees, hands pressed against her ruined eyes. Blood and vitreous humour seeped through her fingers, her battle cries transforming into pitiful sobs.

  Coctus, faced with a dwindling selection of worthy opponents, drew his daggers and set his sights on Mrs Baker. But before he could make a move, his brother was upon him. Iggy expertly parried the blow aimed at his head with a smooth, graceful motion, following it with a flawless pirouette. He landed in a half-crouch just behind Coctus, and in a single, fluid motion, sliced through his brother’s respected hamstring tendons.

  The elegant performance left Coctus crumpling to the street, kneeling in defeat, his daggers falling from his hands.

  Mrs Baker spotted Cole attempting to sneak off into an alley and swiftly caught up with him, her brisk walk outpacing his retreat. Without a second thought, she tapped the top of his head with her peel, sending a light shower of flour over him. Cole’s face turned paler, if that was even possible. He sneezed delicately a few times, lifting his hands in surrender, muttering an apologetic, “I’m good!”

  The baker tilted her head, studying him. “Aww, honey. No, you’re not.” Without missing a beat, she emphasised her stance on the matter, zealously kicking him in the stomach with the peel handle.

  Perched on her shoulder, Croquette sweetly smiled down at the kneeling Lordling. “The hearts of your family are fake; thus, you too make for a rotten carrot cake.”

  With a synchronised wave and a cheerful “Toodles!” the baker and her gargoyle left him kneeling in the street.

  Amidst the chaos, Seraphina pushed her way into the house. Bastian caught a glimpse of her out of the corner of his eye, but it took him a few long moments to untangle himself from Greta. Once they managed it, both of them raced after her, arriving just in time to witness her particular kind of vileness.

  Bastian froze at the bottom of the basement stairs, and Greta, still hot on his heels, collided with him and peered over his shoulder.

  Seraphina had Ash pinned to the table. The highly ambitious woman was strangling him with one hand and trying to pour the arsenic-laced liquid into his mouth with the other. Ash, gasping for breath, fought back, his movements wild but weak. He conjured fruits in desperation, but the lack of air or concentration (or perhaps both) prevented him from devising a decent defence; he was just holding out for a saviour.

  The designated saviour in question, Wurm, was frantically trying to reach Ash. The gargoyle’s protective instincts kicked in, or, more accurately, he entered a fight-now, faint-later mode. His attempts at using one of several manoeuvres he’d already deemed most likely to rectify the situation were constantly thwarted by Ember, who was jumping up and down in front of him, flailing her still-tied hands. Somehow, she managed to burn through the chair, though fortunately, not the magical rope. As long as no one touched her for too long, her flames posed no immediate threat. Hopefully.

  Wurm feinted (not fainted, thankfully) left, and flew right past Ember, making a calculated decision that the poison was the more imminent danger. He grabbed the vial, clutching it in his claws. Unfortunately, he didn’t manage to avoid Seraphina’s arm, and a blow sent him and the vile vial crashing into a white wall.

  Bastian pushed Ember out of the way, ever so gently, sending her crashing into shelves, where she was promptly buried under falling boxes of solstice decorations. Seraphina turned to face him just in time to receive a well-placed and well-deserved backslap.

  Ash gasped for air, rolled off the table, and expelled bananas in all directions.

  Greta rushed to Wurm with a frantic string of curses. The “Shit! Shit! Shit!” was accompanied by grabbing the gargoyle covered in liquid arsenic and glass fragments, and changed to a litany of “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” as she ran out of the basement.

  Iggy and Hex entered the house just in time to see Greta, still serially swearing, rush to the kitchen with Wurm and promptly dip him in a bucket of water. Ash stumbled his way out of the basement, occasionally expelling fruit, and hoarsely shouted, “Bastian!” while pointing to the basement. Iggy hurried into the basement, while Hex dragged Ash into the kitchen, keeping a watchful eye on the distraught mage that was losing his fruit and the gargoyle dipping witch that was losing her shit.

  Bastian blocked Seraphina’s blow and was about to retaliate in not-so-kind when Iggy violently tackled her with absolutely zero fucks given that she was a woman half his size and twice his age. With no hesitation, he pinned her against the wall, gripping her by the neck, her dainty feet clad in red leather boots flapping helplessly in the air. He roared, spit flying into her face, “Get the fuck out of my house!” and tossed the now red-faced woman across the room. “And take her with you!” He pointed at Ember, who was still struggling with the maleficent ornaments.

  Seraphina got up from the floor, straightened her black dress, and politely declined. “You are welcome to keep them both. Why waste a trip to the notary for only one banishment when we have two unworthy children?”

  Ember finally fought her way free of the decorations and stood before her mother, meeting her eyes directly. “Respected mother, I apologise profoundly for failing my task. You can’t banish me. Please forgive me. Allow me to return home with you. I promise to do better. Please,” she lowered her head in submission.

  Her mother’s face turned stony. “You were clearly informed of the consequences of failure. You failed to kill that fruit fly abomination after making us believe you could handle it. It is either banishment or death.” She paused, glancing at Ember with disgust. “I would do you a favour by slitting your throat now. However, you are not worth any favours.”

  Seraphina paused mid-turn and corrected, “Cannot.”

  Dismissing Ember with a sharp motion, the mage inclined her head curtly at Iggy. “Disgraced brother-in-law Ignatius,” she said in a saccharine voice, before turning on her heel and leaving.

  Ember stood where she was, perfectly still, staring at the mother who was long gone. In truth, it was the most emotion she had ever displayed in her entire life. Verily, an outburst. The closest thing she had ever had to a full-blown temper tantrum. She didn’t flinch when Fringe screamed upon seeing what had happened to Wurm, nor did she stir when Iggy and Bastian passed her and left, locking her in the basement. She just stood where she was, perfectly still, staring at the mother who was long gone.

  The rest of the night was filled with worry for Wurm. After Greta had dipped and scrubbed the ever-loving shit out of him, she wrapped him in a blanket, and Bastian was gently cradling the non-responsive gargoyle. Fringe was snuggled next to her beloved, murmuring soothing words of affection.

  Ash, still terrified and occasionally producing random fruit, was also wrapped in a blanket and tucked under Iggy’s arm. Hot chocolate seemed to help calm him down. A bit. They all sat around the kitchen table, sipping brandy and nibbling on fruit Ash occasionally and unconsciously conjured, the silence punctuated only by the soft clinking of glasses and weary sighs.

  Having Ash trembling under his arm and watching Bastian fret over Wurm put Iggy in an exceptionally foul mood. He muttered, “We should just kill her.”

  “Iggy. She’s just a girl,” Bastian said tiredly.

  “No, don’t ‘Iggy’ me. You’re usually on point and welcomed, but not this time. This is on her. If she’s old enough to kill, she’s old enough to be killed. You know that,” Iggy’s voice was low but intense.

  “I do, but the bodies of the young ones are piling up of late. I would rather we do not add to the pile unless it is absolutely necessary.”

  “She tried to kill Ash. She helped her mother try to kill Ash. She might’ve killed Wurm! Not to mention what could’ve happened if Greta and Hex hadn’t saved our asses. We can handle ourselves, but that was five fucking fire mages! We’re lucky we’re not medium-well to well-done right now!” Iggy shouted. Ash started to cry.

  “Fuck. Ash, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Iggy pulled the boy closer, his voice cracking as he apologised. “Almost losing you and Wurm just… scared the shit out of me. I’m not good with handling shit like that. I’ll calm down. I promise.” He held Ash tighter, gently rocking him in an attempt to soothe his fears. “What the fuck do we do with her, then?” Iggy sighed heavily. “We can’t keep her locked in the basement forever. I refuse to be one of those people.”

  “I actually have a suggestion,” Greta spoke up, her tone matter-of-fact. “Yelena. She could wear down a priest into willingly joining a brothel as a pleasure provider. Honestly, she could use a pet project.”

  Iggy thought it over for a moment and shrugged. “It’s as good a plan as any.”

  Bastian gave a small nod as well, though his gaze lingered on Ash, whose sniffle was followed by a juicy orange. The boy seemed slightly less on edge, but still terrified.

  “Thank you, Greta. Hex and you were amazing out there, and we appreciate your help,” Iggy said, squeezing her hand.

  “Always,” Greta smiled kindly at them. Hex, not one for mushy moments, rolled her eyes and took it as her cue to leave and go find Yelena.

  “Where did you get that magic ball? I’ve never even heard of such magic,” Bastian asked.

  “And you never will. It’s a long story, one involving a very old, very powerful, very nasty, and very dead witch. Suffice to say that was the only one ever made, as far as I know,” Greta leaned back in her chair, looking thoughtful.

  “That was a fucking bluff?!” Iggy’s eyes widened in surprise.

  “I prefer to think of it as an ingenious tactical manoeuvre, based on personal experience with the feelings following the loss of one’s power,” she shrugged.

  “Still,” Bastian said with a nod, “it was an awe-inspiring plan and a magnificent performance. Thank you. We are forever in your debt. If you ever have need of us, we’re just a Hex away.” He winked.

  Greta waved him off nonchalantly. “Yeah, yeah.”

  When the sun had risen to an appropriately high point in the sky, the door began to echo with bellowing bangings.

  The first knock was expected. A delivery boy stood on the doorstep, holding a red leather-bound folder filled with documents from a highly respectable, no-nonsense notary. The papers proclaimed Ash and Ember’s formal banishment and disownment. They were now to bear the eternal dishonour, easily recognisable to any and all by a notorious exilium stamped before their family name.

  The second knock was much more pleasant. Another delivery boy, this one carrying a box of breakfast pastries, came bearing Mrs Baker’s well-wishes for a speedy recovery.

  The third knock was entirely unexpected and would have been laughable if it weren’t already becoming a standard for the town. Four constables appeared, responding to an urgent distress call about a mass skirmish. Bastian answered the door, and will forever remember it as one of the rare moments in his life when he was rendered speechless.

  On the fourth knock, Yelena arrived, her sunny disposition as vibrant as ever. “My dearest daffodils!” she greeted them, showering the room with a series of air kisses. Upon spotting Wurm, her face twisted in animated horror. She sniffed the gargoyle, then, without a second thought, started licking him.

  It took Bastian a few blinks to process her behaviour in his sleep-deprived haze. Finally, he muttered, “Wurm… took an accidental arsenic bath.”

  Yelena pulled back from her licking frenzy, gasped, and clapped her hands together in delight. “How wonderful!” She dug into her yellow leather bag, pulling out several pieces of gold jewellery, examining each one before tossing them back into the bag. After a moment, she selected a tourmaline-adorned bangle, put it on, and beamed. “Aha! All will be well, darlings! Arsenic is in my arsenal!” she declared proudly.

  As pale yellowish smoke began to coil around her fingers, she guided it over Wurm’s still form. The smoke shifted to a bright yellow hue. When she was finished, she attached a little tag to the bangle that read Arsenic for Assholes, and tucked it back into her bag with a satisfied grin.

  “By the surprised delight on your faces, I assume you didn’t know arsenic can be yellow. What glorious luck that this batch was!”

  A few moments later, Wurm stirred and groggily sat up, stretching. “What happened? Is everyone alive? Why am I feeling peckish?” he muttered.

  The statement sent Fringe and Bastian into a cooking frenzy.

  Ash, who had mostly composed himself by now and was perhaps slightly high on chocolate (which may or may not have impaired his judgment), declared that he wished to talk to his sister. Before anyone could voice their objections, Hex immediately offered to accompany him and, with a dark smile, assured them she’d “despatch the girl if she even blinked the wrong way.”

  Ash wasn’t entirely sure what he wanted to say to Ember, but he was certain he should talk to her.

  Ember stood looking at the basement stairs when they came.

  Hex, ever the efficient ghost, floated down to her with a malicious grin and barked, “Sit,” her voice dripping with menace. Ember immediately complied, sitting where she stood, not exactly ideal, but given the rough night everyone had endured, some leeway was certainly deserved.

  Ash lowered himself onto the floor across from his sister. He still wasn’t sure what to say, so he just stared at her, noticing she was thinner, more sullen. Hex, floating beside him, kept a watchful eye on Ember. When the girl finally glanced up at the ghost, Hex raised her chin, daring her to make a mistake. The girl lowered her head in submission.

  Ash was wringing his hands, his voice soft and unsure. “Um… Wurm is fine. In case you were wondering.”

  Breathe. Good. Good. Unforgivable death.

  “Um… I am, too. If you maybe wondered.”

  Ember gave him a barely perceptible nod.

  Breathe. Relax. He is fine. Alive. Talk. Tell him. You didn’t know. Tell him. No. Unforgivable. Fratricide.

  “Um… Do you remember the summer before my 11th birthday? When all the family went to that wedding, and the two of us were left with the staff? We snuck out of the mansion and went to the town’s orchards. Do you remember that day?”

  Breathe. Best day. Unforgivable. Shame.

  When she showed no signs of recognition, Ash continued, his voice trembling, “Remember? We ran all the way there, played catch, climbed trees, and tried all the ripe fruit. That was the best day of my life.” A tear slid down his cheek. “It was the only time I ever heard you laugh. Do you remember?”

  Breathe. Breathe. Concentrate. Never show emotions.

  Ash conjured a perfect green apple and placed it gently in front of her. “I believe this one was your favourite.”

  Breathe! Breathe! Don’t choke. Unforgivable. They should kill me. I deserve it.

  “I don’t care if you knew what was in that vial,” he said, his voice softening, “I forgive you.”

  Breathe! I don’t deserve it. Don’t cry. Compose yourself. Breathe! Let go. Let him go.

  Ash and Hex left before Ember lost control, her tears falling silently. She picked up the apple, holding it close to her heart.

  It’s fine. There’s no one here to see. Cry away.

  ***

  “Sit at the table, buttercup. Let’s keep those kidneys in good health,” said the witch to the girl, and the girl obediently moved and sat at the table.

  “Do you know who I am?” asked the witch, her tone casual, but her gaze sharp. The girl blinked, confused, and then nodded.

  “Well, then you know I don’t read minds. You will use words,” said the witch.

  The girl raised her eyes, meeting the witch’s amber ones. The witch had a friendly smile on a lovely face framed by blond curls peeking from under a soft yellow bowler hat that matched her men’s suit. A gold pin shaped like a sun held her neck scarf in place.

  “What do you know of witches?” the witch inquired.

  The girl lowered her gaze.

  “No, no! Raise your eyes, buttercup,” the witch gently scolded, and the girl hesitated before looking up again.

  “Respected witch, my knowledge of witches is limited. I know they are colour-coded and oriented, meaning each witch has power over whatever is associated with her colour. They are born as human women, and after menopause, once their powers manifest, they become immortal, change their names to match the colour of their power, and start dressing in men’s clothing. They carry brooms that…” The girl tilted her head at the witch. “You don’t have a broom.”

  “I don’t. Someone stole it,” the witch replied, her tone light. “We’re not immortal, just live for a very long time. I’m Yelena Yellow. You can call me Yelena or Yeyo. I also respond rather well to lemon meringue pies.” The witch winked. “Being a yellow witch, I have a keen interest in urology, love long walks on sunny days, and occasionally scorching someone who deserves it. Oh, and I’m known for crafting marvellously designed gold jewellery.”

  “Are you here to kill me? I deserve it. Do you know who I am? What I have done?” the girl asked, her voice thin and uncertain.

  The witch’s bright personality momentarily dimmed. “Your father is Lord Coctus Castor, one of the ruling nine. He comes from a long line of brutal men, but he’s surpassed them all. The ones who still remember the atrocities of his forefathers now desperately long for days of such civility. Your mother, Seraphina, wields insignificant power, but she has an insatiable appetite for it and doesn’t care what she destroys to get it. Cole, the heir apparent, has the mind and personality of stale bread. Tolerable, but certainly not enjoyable. I doubt he’ll live long after your father dies. With you out of the way, the twins are next in line, and they surely have plans.”

  The witch pursed her lips in disgust. “The twin twats are profoundly despicable. First time I had the displeasure of seeing them, they were about nine, and having a blast killing kittens. I couldn’t do anything about the killed kittens, but I’ve made it my mission to give them severe urinary infections every time we cross paths.”

  With more fondness lacing her voice, the witch continued, “The youngest of the family is Ashes. He’s been disowned now, as well as you are. The family tried to kill him several times for the audacity of being born a fruit mage. Do you know that all your little fire cousins didn’t die because their fire was too strong, but because they were flameless mages?”

  The girl twitched at the revelation.

  “Well, I suppose you do now. That leaves you, Ember exilium Castor. The quiet girl everyone believes is a sociopath simply because no one has ever seen you exhibit any emotions. You are the strongest fire mage in the family. Not that they know it, or that anyone else does, for that matter.”

  The girl was about to deny it.

  Yelena waved a lazy dismissal. “I can feel your fire, sunshine.” The witch’s gaze sharpened, and her voice softened. “It must have taken a lot of control to keep it hidden for so long.”

  The witch paused for a few moments, contemplating. Finally, she made up her mind and spoke to the girl with blunt sincerity. “I’ll be honest, you’ve been lied to enough. You come from a long line of mages with questionable morals at best, and moral degenerates at worst. They set you on a certain path, and you’re free to stay on it. If you show your father the full extent of the fire you wield, not only will he take you back, but he’ll make you his heir. You’ll be forced to marry some fire fool and have at least three children, but you will rule the Castors.”

  She let the words hang in the air before continuing. “Alternatively, you can come with me. Iggy and Ash might welcome you into their lives one day. The choice is yours, buttercup.”

  Without another word exchanged between them, the stoic girl nodded, stood, and left with the witch.

  ***

  Several months later, Ash, with Mrs Baker’s generous help and guidance, re-established Albert’s Amazing Fruit Baskets to the delight of the townies. Meanwhile, Iggy and Bastian decided to formally recognise their union and asked Ash if he would like them to adopt him.

  Bastian’s approach to parenting consisted of him insisting that a well-rounded individual wields the sword as expertly as he does the letters. He eagerly took on the task of rounding Ash into such an individual. After another few months, Ember joined the training sessions to be well rounded as well.

  The exilium trio, Ash, Ember, and Iggy, spent a great deal of time discussing the traumas of their upbringings, helping each other heal. The conversations were awkward at first, but soon they all found solace in their group therapy sessions, which Yelena often moderated.

  Ash visited his sister regularly, always bringing with him a custom-made Albert’s Amazing Fruit Basket that included Ember’s favourite green apples and a selection of yellow fruits for Yelena. Their favourite activity was combining their powers to make fruit jams, which soon became a staple in their baskets.

  While Ember remained a girl who showed little emotion, her range was slowly but steadily growing, especially under Yelena’s influence and the companionship of her two Angora cats, Aurelia and Tiberius.

  ***

  One night, five young, slightly inebriated gentlemen wandered into an alley on their quest for fun. However, their plans were abruptly interrupted by a rogue fruit mage. Behind him stood two comely men, one with red hair, the other dark-haired, both smiling deviously.

  When the gentlemen turned to flee, their way was blocked by a rogue fire mage. Behind her stood two middle-aged women in men’s suits, one green-clad, the other yellow-clad, both smiling wickedly.