JohnnyZ
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[Hydrargyrum] Chapter 4
🕑 Added 2025-01-13 22:50:05 +0000 UTCWith all the new knowledge and impressions swirling in his mind, Kayneth made his way back. Not to the orphanage, of course, but to Whittington Hospital, where he convincingly collapsed in a hallway near a familiar ward. The performance barely required any acting—after all, he had walked seven miles both ways, not to mention the endless pacing as he circled the neighborhood and trailed behind Tonks. This body, utterly unfit for such exertion, protested at every step. A feeble reinforcement spell had kept him from collapsing into a ditch on his way back, but the strain on his magic circuits had driven his temperature up to nearly thirty-nine degrees, adding fever to his exhaustion.
It took Kayneth more than a day and a half to fully recover. When he finally awoke, he endured a scolding from his attending physician, who, with a sour expression, declared he’d keep the troublesome patient with his "odd" symptoms for another five days. Archibald nearly grinned with relief—this was exactly what he needed. Yet he managed to suppress his joy, putting on a show of discomfort and fear for his life. Perhaps not entirely convincing, but it was enough. The doctor didn’t probe further; after all, he had plenty of other patients to tend to besides another vagrant from the charity ward with an unfamiliar ailment.
Staying in the hospital had always been Plan B. The primary plan—making contact with the Archibald family or integrating into this world’s magical society—had seemed unlikely even before his conversation with Tonks. Kayneth understood her views on the diversity within the magical community, but he didn’t entirely share them. In the Clock Tower, one dominant theory claimed that the total magical energy in the modern era was a constant. More magi meant less power per individual. Combined with the complications of magic crests and inheritance, this was one reason why old bloodlines deliberately limited their numbers. It also meant that an outsider without connections, sponsors, or an extraordinary gift had no hope of rising above the lowest rungs of the Association’s hierarchy. The coveted positions had long been filled by those with ancient pedigrees.
Evidently, despite Tonks’ hopes, the reality here was similar. Magecraft—even the simple process of learning it—required something as vulgar as money. Lots of money. A penniless orphan, lacking the strength to breach even a basic magical barrier, was not a desirable investment. If Kayneth wanted to achieve his primary goal and embed himself within this magical world, he first needed to pursue a more mundane objective—earning enough money. Unromantic as it sounded, wealth was his key to survival. Even figuring out how to convert currency would come later; first, he needed something worth exchanging.
Today’s discoveries only required minor adjustments to his plan. For example, Tonks’ mention of underage magic restrictions was worth noting. However, he needed to clarify the boundaries of that law. Her tone suggested a total prohibition, but was it truly a ban on all magic, or just spells detected by aurors or witnessed by muggles? Perhaps they tracked violations by magical pulse strength, and his feeble spells went unnoticed. Or maybe surveillance relied on bounded fields, meaning a practitioner of different magical traditions could bypass detection altogether.
So many questions, yet pressing Tonks too hard would raise suspicion, perhaps leading to interrogation or worse—arrest. For now, he would assume that weak magic went unnoticed, while stronger spells warranted caution. He certainly wasn’t ready to face the consequences of attracting aurors or inquisitors. But, truthfully, his current magical capabilities would limit him to minor spells for some time.
On the way back, seeking distraction from his aching muscles and fatigue, Kayneth brainstormed ways to make money in his current state. A few ideas had emerged.
Addressing the nuances of this magical society and its contradictions would come later, once he had a stable footing. Securing a roof over his head and food for at least a week was his immediate priority. Humbling though it was for someone who’d grown up in a manor, served by attendants, and blissfully unaware of money’s purpose until he was nearly ten, Kayneth had little choice but to adapt.
First, he needed to devise a distraction barrier —a minimal-cost magic circle. How much simpler it would be to conjure a bounded field with the necessary properties. But with these feeble magic circuits, he was forced to rely on ritual magic, runes, and diagram-based enchantments—methods that required meticulous calculations and preparation but spared his limited magical reserves. If only he’d inhabited a fifteen-year-old magus’ body, he wouldn’t be scraping for crumbs of power.
Then again, a magus teenager with sufficient willpower could have expelled Kayneth’s soul outright or, at the very least, slowed the possession long enough to call a specialist—someone like himself, a spiritualist skilled in dealing with possession and exorcising unwelcome intruders. Perhaps fate’s choice had been merciful. Better to be hungry and alive than well-fed and disincarnated.
On March 31st, five days later, it was time to tackle the most challenging phase of his plan.
James Murphy sat by the ward window, an unusual position for him, staring intently at the parking lot. When a new Japanese SUV skidded into view, nearly scraping the sidewalk and stopping diagonally across two spaces, the boy leapt from the windowsill. Clad in his hospital-issued gown, he bolted down the hallway before anyone could ask where he was going.
Navigating the familiar corridors, Kayneth reached the fire exit, slipping through unnoticed past two patients sneaking a forbidden cigarette. Circling the building, he arrived breathless at the parking lot. The SUV remained in place. Relieved, he dashed toward it, dropping to the cold asphalt. After catching his breath, he wriggled beneath the car. For once, he was grateful for the small size of this borrowed body.
With trembling hands, he fished a piece of chalk from his pajama pocket—borrowed from a makeshift classroom in the hospital, the very one where he’d once instructed students after fieldwork. Ignoring the cold seeping through his clothes, the grime, the stink of gasoline, and the indignity of it all, he pulled a crumpled sheet from his other pocket. By the dim light, he squinted at his rough sketch. Then, steadying himself, he began drawing a magic circle on the car’s underbelly.
When, twenty minutes later, the car door slammed shut with a furious bang, and the cursing driver sped off, narrowly missing a lamppost, Kayneth carefully peeked out from behind the front seat.
So far, everything was going as expected. The combination of a lock-breaking circle and an eight-line incantation had worked perfectly, unlocking the vehicle for precisely one and a half minutes before restoring it to its original state. Now, he only needed to hide inside, correctly assuming that the enraged driver wouldn’t bother looking around in his frustration over a wasted trip. The hard part was still ahead.
"Good afternoon, William Summers. I’m the one who called you. Don’t make any sudden moves — a gun will always be faster," the magus said quickly, raising a hand with what appeared to be a weapon so it was visible in the driver’s mirror.
"I mean you no harm. In fact, I have a very lucrative offer for you. So drive forward without attracting police attention or crashing into the nearest wall, and we’ll talk."
To Summers’ credit, he didn’t yank the wheel, scream, or jump out of his seat in shock — nor did he do anything foolish. Summers was a sturdy man in his early thirties, with a close-cropped haircut and the build of someone who may have served in the army. He could probably toss a kid like Kayneth out the window with one hand — if not for the gun, of course. A more hot-headed person might have tried anyway.
Instead, Summers clenched his jaw and spat through gritted teeth, "You people are good. Find out about my wife, call from the hospital with promises of experimental treatment, and then stick a kid with a gun in my backseat. Nicely played. Got me like a damn fool, I’ll admit. So what now? What’s this ‘lucrative’ offer? What do you want? Money? A share in my business? My house?"
"Money. But not much. Just a hundred thousand. And in return, we’ll save your wife. Evelyn Summers is in Whittington Hospital, stage-four cancer. She has two months left — give or take five days. She might not even make it to summer.
"I can save her. Not just give you hope, not offer ‘a chance’ or some vague possibility. I’m not here to tell you there are ‘new opportunities.’ I’m talking about a real cure. No complications, no side effects. I know exactly what needs to be done — and I’ve performed these… ‘procedures’ before."
"If this is a joke, it’s a pretty sick one."
"I’m not one for humor. I know how I look, and I know if not for the gun, you wouldn’t even be listening to a ragged kid like me. I wouldn’t either. That’s why I had to set up this little act — so you’d at least hear what I can offer. Enough to believe that I can do what I’m promising."
"How could you possibly do it?" Summers growled, gripping the wheel tighter, nearly colliding with a truck stopped at the traffic light.
"The doctors have already given up on her. They even stopped pretending the treatment was working. Now they just increase the painkillers. Everything else is useless."
"Ordinary medicine can’t help her. But there are… other methods. I can do it. Just like I know that Evelyn broke two toes when she was a child, got seriously poisoned when she was six, and wouldn’t sleep without a light until middle school. At ten, a snake bit her wrist. She lost her virginity at seventeen.
"You met her four years ago on June 16th at the airport. Half of that isn’t in her medical records. I also know how to break into a car despite its alarm system. Just as I can make you believe there’s a revolver in my hand."
"What?! How—" Summers glanced in the mirror, then twisted around to see the glue stick Kayneth held, pointed like a gun. A moment ago, it had seemed like a convincing chrome-plated revolver.
For the first time, the despair on Summers' face gave way to genuine astonishment. "But that’s… impossible."
"Magic can do remarkable things, Mr. Summers. It can unlock doors, make the unseen visible, or hide things in plain sight. It can reveal everything about a person.
"And yes — it can cure the terminally ill. You don’t have to believe in it. That doesn’t change its existence or the fact that it’s your wife’s only chance."
"Then what’s your angle?" Summers asked, sounding almost ready to accept that there might be a grain of truth in the madness.
"If you’re some all-powerful sorcerer, why do you need my money? Why not turn dirt into gold? Or make a bank teller believe a pile of old newspapers is cash? Why all this nonsense? What do you care about my wife? If you’re really that powerful, couldn’t you just take everything I have?"
"It’s refreshing to deal with a smart man," Kayneth replied. "Even without believing me, you’re already looking for holes in my offer.
"First, magic isn’t omnipotent. You can’t ressurect the dead.
"Second, it’s forbidden. Everything you just mentioned — making money from nothing, stealing from ‘muggles’ with magic —" Kayneth deliberately used the local term, hoping it would mislead any investigators later. Let them chase down a native wizard.
"Even showing magic to the uninitiated is illegal. Just talking to you, or using spells to examine your wife, could get me thrown in prison under our laws. And prison isn’t the worst punishment — death would be kinder in some cases.
"I need money without leaving obvious magical traces. I can’t have witnesses pointing fingers at me. If you take Evelyn out of Whittington, say you’re pursuing alternative treatment — I don’t care where, make something up. Israel, America — whatever you like. People will try to stop you. They’ll think you’re insane.
"Find a quiet place outside London. That’s where we’ll do the ritual. You pick the spot. You can bring security if you trust them to keep quiet about… what you’d call ‘witchcraft.’ Bring a real gun if it makes you feel safer.
"I’ll do my part — I’ll heal her. If it doesn’t work, or if I die trying, you lose nothing.
"But if I succeed, in two weeks, after you’ve confirmed Evelyn is fine, you’ll give me twenty thousand. Just make sure you do the check up far from Whittington — the farther, the better.
"Then, after another month, when you’re sure everything is perfect, you’ll give me the rest.
"After that, we pretend we never met. Or — if you want to make some money — find me another hopeless case in six months. One hundred thousand is my fee. Anything you charge above that is yours.
"It won’t be in your interest to betray me or expose magic. If the wrong people find out, at best, you and Evelyn will have your memories wiped and her miraculous recovery will get undone. I on the other hand receive the full punishment, and death is not the worst option there.
"So those are my terms."
"Amusing. But all of this could have been faked, couldn’t it? To make me believe this crazy nonsense. Look at you—you're in pajamas. Who’s to say the hospital doesn’t have a psychiatric ward?"
"Of course," the magus replied casually. "Evelyn could have been sent through X-rays and MRIs ten times over, then interrogated under drugs and hypnosis to learn everything about her. The car could have been broken into with… I don’t know, some kind of lock-pick for this type of security system. The gun? I could have hidden it in another pocket or thrown it out the window while you weren’t looking. And so on, and so on. This could all be a scam, the work of enemies, or someone’s cruel joke at your expense.
"You probably know people capable of such things. I certainly did. Or maybe I escaped from an asylum. But in two months, when she dies, you’ll remember this conversation. Every day, it will replay in your mind. Over and over, you’ll wonder—what if there was even a half-percent chance, a fraction of a percent, that I was telling the truth?
"What if I could have done something—anything—when everyone else had already given up on her? You’ll live a long life, Mr. Summers—aside from some liver issues, your health is solid. If you don’t drink yourself into the grave this year, you’ll have plenty of time to reflect and regret. To replay this conversation a thousand times, dissecting every second. Asking yourself, ‘What if I had agreed? Would she be alive now?’"
"And how the hell would you know any of that, kid?"
"I think it’s obvious this isn’t my real appearance. I’m older than you, William. Once, a fiancee died in my arms because of me—because I misjudged the danger of what I was getting into. I could have saved her if I hadn’t brought her along or sent her home sooner.
"I didn’t send her away. I didn’t save her. So, believe me, I understand your situation even better than you do.
"All right, stop the car over there at the intersection. I can see you don’t need my services. It was nice meeting you, Mr. Summers. Wishing you a long life."
"Wait..." William stopped the car, though the magus made no move to exit, waiting for him to speak. "Can you really save her?"
"Yes."
"Swear it."
"I see no point. You’re an ordinary man; magical oaths aren’t binding for you. A simple promise means nothing to me. Either you believe I can do this, or you don’t—and in that case, I’ll find another client."
"Fine… let’s say I believe you…" Summers shook his head, searching for some loophole or proof he was making a mistake—or not. "But why me?"
"I used to work at Whittington. I know the layout of the wards and patient rooms. It wasn’t hard to find the right people," Kayneth said, not entirely lying. "And out of all the visitors to oncology ward, you were the only one wearing a tie worth a year’s salary of their head doctor."
"You investigated the families?"
"As good a method as any. Remember those chairs in the corridor? In the past few days, one was always occupied. But did you notice who was sitting there? That’s where I was watching from. Enchantments to divert the attention are much simpler than full invisibility. They make people overlook you, look away without realizing it. Why a public hospital, though? Why not Highgate Private or something? You’ve got the money."
"Everyone told me this place had excellent cancer specialists. They claimed the survival rate here was high. A bunch of charlatans..." William muttered, then added, looking at the magus studying him, "You’ve already figured out I’m agreeing, haven’t you? What do you need besides a quiet place?"
"Here’s the list." Kayneth handed him a densely written notebook page. "Everything needs to match exactly—the quality, the quantities. No substitutions, no shortcuts. Once you gather all the materials, I’ll need three days to prepare. On the fourth night, we’ll conduct the ritual.
"For now, it’s better if she stays in the hospital. They’ll provide care, and if I disappear, her sudden transfer won’t be linked to me—even if someone saw me by your car."
"Silver, mercury, salt, rice, steel knives, charcoal… rabbits? Is all this really necessary?"
"And in precisely those amounts. More is fine; less is not," the magus declared firmly. He didn’t expect much from someone utterly clueless about magical practices but hoped they could at least follow simple instructions.
"One more thing—when you’re searching for a house or a plot of land, don’t use your real name. And plan on leaving immediately once we’re done."
"That was the plan anyway—not just because of your… Men in Black or whatever you call them. And now, where to…?"
"James. Call me James. If you’ve got a place I can stay for a couple of days, I’ll stay there. It’ll give you peace of mind that I’m not going anywhere, and I don’t have anywhere else to go."
"That can be arranged. I’m counting on you, James."
"I’ll do what I promised, William. And remember—this conversation never happened."
__________________________________-
The magus carefully painted more symbols onto the wooden floor with blood—human, though donor-supplied. He inspected the lines closely, checking for smudges or inconsistencies in the structure of the circle.
He also ensured the Latin inscriptions (drawn in charcoal) were aligned and error-free.
Drawing a sixteen-foot diameter magic circle, a foot thick, packed with focusing lines, small circles for ritual tools, and rows of auxiliary spells wasn’t a task for a novice. Doing it entirely from memory, without books, was almost suicidal—especially considering the cost of a single error.
But Kayneth trusted his knowledge and steady hands. He had even managed to sketch out a rough draft, though the calculations had taken significant time.
"You know," William said, standing by a boarded-up window, "if I weren’t an atheist, I’d be running for the nearest church right now, pounding on the doors."
He tried to sound casual, but his voice betrayed his unease.
"You probably don’t notice anymore, but from an outsider’s perspective, this all looks like dark sorcery. All you’re missing are inverted crosses and a couple of bound virgins in the corner."
"Believe me, Mr. Summers, you wouldn’t want to see what real ‘dark sorcery’ looks like—or pay the price such rituals demand.
"This setup is calculated for maximum safety—or at least as safe as magic can ever be."
Kayneth stood, inspecting the final section of the drawing from above, evaluating its overall integrity.
With a practiced motion, he ran his hand through his hair, attempting to brush it back. He grimaced with disgust as the cold steel bracelet on his wrist pressed against nearly bare skin. Credit where it was due—once Summers agreed to the suspicious boy’s terms, he sprang into action. In barely an hour, he had found a rental apartment, left him there under the watch of two armed guards, and provided a couple thousand pounds for expenses before rushing off to acquire the necessary materials and organize the upcoming "event."
He had introduced himself as a businessman, though he didn’t elaborate on the specifics of his trade. The magus hoped Summers had enough connections to gather the required components quickly—and enough sense not to hand over a ragged, promise-laden vagrant to the authorities or psychiatric services.
The next three days, Kayneth spent preparing for the ritual, using whatever spare time he had to get himself into minimally decent condition. By the guards' arrangement, several sets of clothing, properly sized for an underfed ten-year-old, were delivered. Meals, simplistic but filling, arrived thrice daily from a cheap local eatery, helping him finally restore his strength. On the second day, a barber appeared, proposing an almost complete shave. “Orphanages aren’t just bedbugs and roaches,” the man had said, hinting at lice and fleas. The indignity stung deeply, but Kayneth loathed parasites far more. Wasting magic to purge them was not an option.
The remaining time saw the magus irritable and drained, like twenty-seven ancient vampires nursing a grudge. He used the downtime to discharge excess energy from his magic circuits into a set of steel knives—twelve identical pieces purchased by one of Summers’ guards. Kayneth hadn’t bothered asking their names. The man likely assumed blunt, flimsy blades posed little threat. But to a magus, these knives—while cheap—served as makeshift power reservoirs. As an alchemist, he valued metal far more than gemstones. Shape mattered little; if knives had been unavailable, he would have stored energy in spoons or even hammers.
On the fourth morning, Summers reappeared. He took them all to a small, abandoned village about thirty miles from London, where Kayneth spent three more sleepless days preparing a house for the ritual.
“I’ve been wondering,” Summers spoke at last, watching the magus. “Back in the hospital, did you draw circles like this to examine my wife? Or how did you figure out how many days she had left and that she broke her fingers as a child—without using circles?”
“Who said I didn’t use circles?” Kayneth arched an eyebrow. He welcomed the break and surveyed the outer contour of his work under the glaring light. From the start, he’d insisted on ample lighting, warning that a single error in a line or symbol could ruin everything. Four construction lamps now hung from ceiling mounts, powered first by a car battery and later by a diesel generator hauled from the city. A makeshift solution, but it worked.
“Different goals require different tools,” he continued. “In your wife’s case, a few simple seals sufficed. A small circle by each patient’s bed and a larger one near that old man in the neighboring ward. His life was—let’s say—useful.”
“His life?” Summers echoed warily. One of the guards stood nearby, silent as furniture, giving no reaction.
“Metaphorically speaking. He had three months left. Even if his family had hired me, the best I could’ve done was extend his life by four years—his body was worn out after nearly eighty. Instead, I used the remainder of his life force to power diagnostic spells. He’s likely been dead two days now, but his death saved me hours of work. You, ordinary people, do not even think about how expensive a human soul and life can be and how much can be obtained with the help of even a simple sacrifice,” The magus shot a contemptuous glance at Summers' horrified expression. “Don’t insult me with ignorance, Mr. Summers. Spirits aren’t wolves. They don’t prey on the weak and dying—our guest tonight included. If I needed a life exchange for power, you, I, or even your guard would make far better sacrifices than a woman barely clinging to life.”
Summers stiffened. “I just want my wife healthy.”
“And I just want my money. Perfect understanding, don’t you think?” Kayneth knelt, wiped away a blurred line on the floor, and corrected it with a piece of chalk. He glanced at Summers, waited for the reluctant nod, then resumed work, occasionally consulting his notes.
________________________________
Long after midnight, the outer circle was complete, save for a few inches he purposely left open. He traced the circumference twice, scrutinizing every symbol and adjusting a few. He lingered for a moment, fidgeting with the steel bracelet on his wrist—another knife transfigured for convenience—before finally addressing Summers, who hadn’t moved from his spot by the wall.
“We’re nearly ready. What time is it?”
“Half past one,” Summers replied after checking his watch.
“And sunrise?”
Summers blinked, caught off guard. “Sunrise?”
Kayneth muttered under his breath. “Should’ve checked myself,” he grumbled before speaking up. “Wake me before dawn. That’s when we’ll begin.”
“I thought rituals like this happened at midnight.”
The magus opened his mouth—another lecture brewing—but Summers, recognizing the signs, cut him off.
“Fine. Dawn it is.”
____________________________________
"James. Murphy, it’s dawn already."
"James? What James?" the magus muttered drowsily before yet another nightmare fully released its grip on him. "Ah, right. James. I get it, we’re starting."
Rising from the chair, Kayneth glanced at the reddish streaks of dawn slipping through the boarded windows. He nodded and began arranging cages with animals around both circles, setting out his knives and other items that Summers and his men had procured. After checking everything twice, he turned to William, who stood waiting nearby, and confirmed:
"Everything’s ready. Place her in the center, and we can begin."
Evelyn, who had been lying in a van converted into a makeshift ambulance, was carried in by her husband. He carefully stepped over the lines on the floor and laid her on the bed. Stroking her face, he whispered something tender before retreating to stand against the wall.
As soon as he was done, the magus quickly completed the circles, moved to the head of the bed, and slid two knives filled with reserve energy into his pockets. Another knife was placed at a specific point on the outer circle. Raising both hands, he began chanting a twelve-line incantation in Latin, releasing his magic circuits and channeling energy with precise control—not too fast, not too slow—keeping the flow perfectly measured.
The circle began to glow softly, pulsing in time with his words. The chalk-drawn lines stretched upward, forming two transparent rings that rose like walls. The knives on the floor trembled and rang as they released energy, drawing on ambient power to sustain the ritual. This transition from external to self-sustained energy was the most delicate part of the calculations. Had Kayneth possessed enough power on his own, such convolutions wouldn’t have been necessary, and the design could’ve been three times simpler. But as it was, his reserves fell far short.
Mist began to form between the two ghostly rings, thin at first but quickly thickening into a swirling, churning cloud. Just as he reached the final words of the chant, the last two lamps overhead flickered and died, leaving the room illuminated only by the dim, silver haze that now obscured Evelyn from view.
"You called, and I have come," whispered a disembodied voice, seeming to echo from everywhere at once. "Do you seek a bargain, wizard?"
"I believe we can strike a deal, Tanlan Laoren," Kayneth addressed the Chinese spirit by name. He had dealt with beings like this before. Reflexively, he touched the knife in his pocket, replenishing his nearly depleted reserves. "You already understand my request. Her healing in exchange for your freedom. The difference in price, I offer in tribute—grain and silver, knowledge and life." He gestured to the offerings arranged within the inner circle: bowls of rice and millet, silver coins, cages with doves and rabbits, even a scroll inscribed with poetry. "Everything according to your tastes, spirit."
"How refreshing," the voice murmured, utterly devoid of emotion. "To meet one who remembers my preferences, rather than dumping whatever trash is at hand. I accept the bargain."
"Apertum," the magus spoke, opening the inner barrier.
For a moment, nothing happened. The mist continued to swirl lazily, then began to churn violently. The spirit's voice turned sharp, filled with malice and threat:
"Did you think to cheat me, wizard? Your payment is insufficient! She stands with one foot in the grave—your offerings are meager for such a task. Pay, or I will take my own price!"
"What?" Kayneth froze, bewildered. This wasn’t possible. His calculations had been flawless. He quickly reviewed them in his mind, going over every offering he had placed mere minutes before.
"Your greed knows no bounds, old one! I gave what was agreed upon. Honor the terms!"
"Pay! Pay! PAY!"
"Damn it..." The magus swore as spectral tendrils lashed against the outer barrier. It wouldn’t hold much longer; the structure itself was already fraying. He had no backup array—there had been neither time nor resources to construct one. As a veteran magus, he could tell when a spirit was haggling versus when it had the right to demand its due. And now, it appeared he was the one who had erred.
"What’s happening?" William’s voice was taut with fear, even he could tell something had gone wrong.
Kayneth turned to him, hesitating only briefly before raising his hand and commanding sharply:
"Capturent!"
The bracelet on his wrist shifted, unraveling into a dozen thin, flexible steel wires that shot toward the nearest guard. The threads wrapped around the man in an instant, binding him before he could draw his weapon. They tightened, biting into fabric and flesh alike. Kayneth had imbued the improvised mystic code with two combat commands—this one for binding, and another for dismemberment, which he did not yet dare to use yet.
"James!" Summers cried, fumbling with trembling hands to draw his pistol.
"Not now!" Kayneth snarled, pulling the guard off the ground with a gesture and dragging him toward the barrier. The effort drained nearly all his remaining power. Fixing his gaze on the mist, he spoke coldly, "Will blood suffice? Fresh and warm. Human, not vermin. You enjoy that too, Laoren, don’t you?"
"Blood! Yes, blood! Give it to me now!" the spirit rasped, pausing its assault on the barrier.
Ignoring the stunned Summers, Kayneth crouched by the chalk lines, frantically sketching a small semicircle and inscribing the necessary words and sigils. Time was running out. The barrier would fail any second. Touching another knife, he drained the energy stored within, snapping the cheap blade in half—poor-quality steel barely withstood even minimal magic.
"Gradation Air," he whispered, conjuring a shallow glass basin from nothing, a temporary physical form created from his own magic circuits. He gestured again, lifting the blood pooling on the floor and transferring it into the vessel. Control slipped, and some splattered onto the ground, but it was enough. Erasing a few symbols, he expanded the barrier with a swift motion. "Feast, spirit."
"My thanks," the voice hissed as the mist surged into the new space. "Now the debt is paid, the contract fulfilled. Her health for my freedom and your tribute. You tried to cheat me, but I forgive you. The blood was exquisite."
"What about the woman?"
"She is healed. I keep my bargains."
"Then I release you," Kayneth answered simply, reciting the two-line dismissal spell. The mist vanished in a soft flash of light.
"Stay back!" he barked as Summers lunged toward the circle. "Cadunt," he commanded, dispelling the outer barrier. He watched as the glass basin dissolved into thin air. "Go. Check on her."
Breathing heavily, drained to his core, the magus slumped to the floor beside the guard, who had finally ceased struggling. He closed his eyes, trusting the spirit’s word. Spirits, unlike humans, were easier to handle. They might twist language, but outright lies were rare. If it said Evelyn was healed, then so she was.
The real challenge would come soon, when William Summers recovered from his shock and decided how to deal with the magus who had just offered human blood for a miracle.
