Oliver woke in a cold sweat, patting his pockets for the pens he stole only to realize he’d surrendered them to Messer days ago. Feeling ill, he unearthed the silverware set he’d buried under his sleeping spot… His stepfather would be back in port tonight.

  And what was Ms. Scaggs up to with that garden shed? Was it a trap like those candles for the vampire? Then why give him a key?

  It didn’t matter. He’d made his choice. He was just like Messer now, and he didn’t deserve any better. He’d be found out, kicked out, and at the mercy of his stepfather. It was his fault and he knew it.

  And he felt even more the thief for spending the money she had specifically given him for cleaning supplies, on a candle. Stupid, it had done him no good. He hadn’t been able to make it smolder, much less ignite.

  But the Sun was coming up, so he wrapped Ms. Scaggs’ silverware back in a rag and spread dirt on top of it. Then he dusted himself off and entered through the garden gate. To his surprise, she was up and waiting at the back door.

  “Hey boy, we should probably go check on that couple, what’s their names?” Scaggs said blurry-eyed. She was sipping something from a cup. Pungent but not alcohol, its foul smell, like rotten potatoes, wormed into his nostrils from halfway across the garden. She made a sour face with every sip.

  “The Underhills?” he asked.

  “Yeah, them.”

  Scaggs was lethargic, even forgetting her satchel as they headed out, but Oliver reminded her, and she continued sipping foulness from the cup along the way.

  Yawning once they caught sight of the Underhill’s house, she smacked her chops and downed the rest of the liquid. “I hope no one did anything stupid,” she said, knocking on the door. No one answered, but a few seconds later, the couple’s servant, a gray-haired maid, rushed toward them from the street.

  “Are you Scraggs?” the maid asked in a wheeze, unlocking the door as the wizardess nodded. “Upstairs quickly!”

  Oliver hardly found time to gasp. Scaggs had pushed past the maid and leapt up the stairs, leaving a trail of faintly glowing embers in her wake. One-by-one they blinked out, and he chased up just in time to see the bedroom door handle glow red with heat. Scaggs yanked on it, breaking the lock, and rushed inside.

  As the maid clambered up after them, Oliver peered through the doorway. The Underhills were huddled against the bed on one side, the husband with his spark revolver drawn, while a shadowy figure loomed on the opposite side, with Ms. Scaggs standing in the middle, holding each at bay.

  The figure hissed at her.

  “Oh, hisss yourself,” she shot back. “Reuben, calm down!”

  “He ssshot me! And every time I try to leave, the fire…” The figure pointed to the candles under the window.

  “Yes well, what did you expect?”

  “And what did you do with Ann-gela?” he asked in a huff.

  “That’s her on the bed, dying, thanks to you,” said Scaggs. “I put a charm on her so you wouldn’t recognize her. You always had a thing for redheads.”

  “You know this—this—thing?” Mr. Underhill stammered out.

  “I’ve had to deal with him before, yes.”

  “Well, you didn’t do a very good job!” Mrs. Underhill’s voice cracked.

  Scaggs raised her hand, flames flickering from her palm, and the shadow shrunk back. She turned her attention to the woman in bed. “How is she?”

  “In and out of consciousness,” said Mrs. Underhill.

  “Better than yesterday?”

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  “Yes.”

  “Do you have somewhere you can take her?” Scaggs asked.

  “There’s a—”

  “Then go.” She waved them away. “It’s over. I’ll finish up here.”

  Mrs. Underhill started helping her cousin out of bed, but her husband was still trying to keep his gun level and pointed at the shadow, his wildly shaking hands looking likely to misfire.

  “Put that away and help her!” Scaggs shoved the gun down and pointed to the woman, keeping her other—still flaming—hand raised to the shadow.

  Oliver stepped aside to make way for the Underhills who, one under each arm, carried their cousin out the door.

  Finally, Scaggs seemed to relax, though she did keep her hand raised and ready to incinerate. “Boy, you can come in now.”

  When Oliver stepped through, the shadowy figure was still there, and when he tried to look at it directly, a feeling of urgent dread overcame him. He flinched away, almost fleeing. But a fiery Ms. Scaggs was even more formidable, and Oliver inched into position behind her.

  “Can we make a deal?” the figure asked.

  “I do not believe you’re any good at keeping them. You remember our last deal? Nothing but pig’s blood.”

  “But I paid you, one thousssand sssovereigns.”

  She shook her head. “That was to let you live, not give you free rein. We said no hunting.”

  “But the girl agreed,” the figure whined.

  “We said no hunting.” Flame flared from Scaggs’ hand as she repeated the words.

  “Please, I misss-understood.”

  “I might be willing to come to terms, but first things first, take a step toward the window.”

  “Why?”

  “I want the boy to see.”

  “But the fire.”

  Scaggs flicked her hand at the shadow in threat. “That’s what I want to show him. I could ignite your eyes in an instant, and so could the boy, do not forget that.”

  An obvious lie, Oliver couldn’t spark a candle to life, much less burn someone’s eyes, but he understood why she had said it, and terrified as he was, it was very much appreciated.

  As the figure took a cautious step toward the window, the morning light revealed a tall, lean man in a dark suit, one with an awkwardly long, comely face framed by locks of dark hair.

  An instant later, the candles flared to life, but the flame did not behave as it should. It flowed like fabric, covering the window in an upside-down curtain.

  Reuben hissed, pulling away, and the flames retreated.

  “Thank you, Reuben,” said Scaggs, not unpleasantly. “I might not have to incinerate you, maybe…”

  “What will it cossst—”

  “Have you killed anyone?”

  “No, and I wasn’t going to kill her.” His shoulders fell.

  “But you were going to turn her… weren’t you?”

  “But I paid you.”

  She shook her head. “We’ve been over this. Fine then, town is off limits, for a year.”

  “But the opera… the music—”

  “All the more reason to keep your word. It’s just a year, that’s nothing to you.”

  “But—”

  “—Or I ignite your eyes?”

  “Fine,” Reuben groaned.

  “And I’m afraid I’m going to have to…” She pointed at his chest. “Take your shirt off.”

  “No!”

  “I could always cast with it on, but I thought I’d save you a trip to the tailor’s.”

  Reluctantly, Reuben unbuttoned his shirt, exposing the faded umber flesh of his chest. And as Ms. Scaggs motioned her hand toward him, it took Oliver a while to realize that Reuben was in pain, gritting his teeth and grunting, but with no sign of the cause.

  “Good,” said Scaggs, “Now you have one more night to get out of town, and stay out for a year, and only pig’s blood from now on, or your eyes.” She made a poofing gesture.

  Slumping, Reuben rebuttoned his shirt.

  “Is he a—a vampire?” Oliver whispered to Ms. Scaggs.

  “No!” the man protested as, at the exact same time, Scaggs stated matter-of-factly, “Yes.”

  When the man let out a whimper, she corrected herself, “Fine. No, not technically a vampire, but basically…”

  Curious, Oliver worked up the courage to give the man a good looking over. It still rose a shiver, but the way this ‘Reuben’ was inching back, if anything, he was afraid of Oliver.

  On their way out, Ms. Scaggs very politely knocked on the basement door. After a long moment, the maid cracked it open, her gaze snapping to Reuben.

  “You know what,” said Scaggs. “You can tell them there’ll be no charge for this one, provided they don’t talk about it.”

  The maid turned her head, looking into the room, at the Underhills apparently. She turned back and nodded.

  Once they were outside, Reuben pulled his cloak over his head and scurried off.

  “How did that work?” Oliver asked. “That spell you put on him. I didn’t see anything. Was he in pain?”

  “Oh,” she said. “I dabble in delusions. He thinks I burned a flame rune onto his chest. I did not. Any pain was imagined… basically.”

  “So, you’re just letting him go? What if he hurts someone?”

  She raised a brow. “Would you have killed him?”

  The man didn’t seem like a monster, not once things had calmed down. He was scary, but Oliver couldn’t see himself executing him. Finally, he said, “No, I guess not.”

  “Me either.” She shrugged.

  “But he is a killer?”

  “Only once that I know of… which wasn’t entirely his fault.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She let out a soft sigh. “It’s just that when people treat you like a monster, sometimes you have to act like one, if you want to survive.”

  “So, he’s not dangerous?” Oliver asked.

  “What do you think?”

  “I think he’s lonely, more than anything.”

  “Smart boy.” She nodded.

  “Are there a lot of… other…” Oliver found himself searching for the right word. “Not-a-vampires?”

  “You’d have to ask him, but as far as I know, he might be the last.”