Rumsfeld crouched in the shadows beneath a towering tree at the farm’s edge. Before him gaped two open graves, their pine boxes shattered and splintered from being pried apart. The clotted, hardened soil suggested recent desecration—a week old at most.


    Thick, oily smoke still curled from the wreckage of the farmhouse, the scent clinging to the damp air. He had caught it on the wind as he left Widdershire, pushing himself forward with unnatural speed, yet still arriving too late. Whoever had been here was already gone.


    He might have suspected Reginald if not because the wretched Blackthorn spawn was on the hill overlooking Widdershire. Rumsfeld had no doubt he was searching the boy’s grave for the painting that held the Lazarus spell.


    The painting lay hidden here for thirty years, safe within a recess formed by the chimney stones. Now, the farmhouse was burned to its foundation, and the chimney lay half collapsed. The box that housed the painting would have endured the fire, but had it remained undiscovered?


    He knew Reginald had not found the painting. If he had, he wouldn’t still be searching. That meant the box should still be here, and if it were, Rumsfeld would reclaim it and return it to the moors of the Blackthorn estate. There, he would consider the destruction of the scroll—either through magical fire or by its direct use. He had no desire for the curse of longevity. His current half-vampiric form already doomed him to outlive all he had once loved. He could transcend to full vampirism by feeding on humans—and in the process—claim the near-immortality his (now dead) masters had once possessed.


    No. He refused.


    He had lied to Rebecca but had intended no malice. He could unlock the spell and, in doing so, restore his youth and vigor—yet he had long since abandoned such mortal desires. This decrepit form, this mockery of a man, suited him better. It kept him isolated and prevented him from indulging in the hunger that gnawed at him. It kept him from becoming the thing his masters intended him to be. His refusal to feed, to complete the transformation, was his last defiance—his only rebellion against the sins that haunted him.


    His only purpose now was to keep the spell from Reginald.


    And as for Rebecca? He deemed her unworthy. A pale shadow of her mother’s greatness, an unwitting pawn in her brother’s schemes. Her legacy was to live out her life as a withering remnant of the Blackthorn name.


    He clenched his jaw, memories surfacing unbidden. Almost thirty years had passed, yet that night remained stark in his mind. The overwhelming force of the assault, the desperate look in his mistress’s eyes.


    Escape with the children, she had pleaded. Not ordered—pleaded—a request, not a command.


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    She had known it was her end.


    And if he had stayed, it would have been their end, too.


    At her behest, the carriage had flown through the darkness, hidden under layers of magical protections. It was invisible to the members of the Magic Council who swarmed the estate, their intent deadly and final.


    The silent and withdrawn boy, Reginald, was left at an orphanage with nothing but a blanket and a sharp rap on the wooden door.


    Rebecca’s fate had been different.


    He had taken her to his sister’s farmhouse. A place where she would be cared for and loved. His sister, barren and desperate for a child, had welcomed the girl without question. And though he had sworn he would return, they had both known the lie in his words.


    The only thing he had done was to ensure the painting was well hidden within the stones of the chimney. A precaution—one he had always feared would not be enough. The smoldering ruins before him justified that fear.


    Rumsfeld stepped over the scorched wreckage, embers casting eerie red glows against the night. Small patches of grass still smoldered where sparks had leapt from the blaze. His boots crunched over charred wood as he moved through the debris. With his superhuman strength, he overturned fallen beams and collapsed chimney stones.


    Then, he saw them.


    Two bodies. Not human.


    The remains from the graves.


    And then, a flicker of recognition—a cold, creeping certainty settling into his bones.


    One of the bodies was the remains of his sister.


    A bitter, unfamiliar thing rose in him—rage.


    Reginald had done this.


    Rumsfeld’s hands curled into fists, but the anger faded, swallowed by guilt. I brought this upon her. His sister had been doomed when he left Rebecca in her care. It hadn’t even mattered that the painting was hidden here—Reginald would have torn the place apart regardless.


    And she had suffered for it.


    Tortured. Murdered. Then forced back into this ghastly form, only to die again.


    He studied the corpse, noting the odd mark on her face—the imprint of a hand—a sure sign of magical fire.


    A conjurer was here.


    Likely the work of the Magic Council, still pursuing the last remnants of the Blackthorns.


    So, Reginald had other enemies. Good. Let them deal with him.


    He turned back to the ruins, continuing his search, his movements more frantic now. The box was nowhere to be found.


    He dropped to his knees, pushing away ash and soot, combing through the wreckage with increasing desperation. His search led him to the pit where the floor had collapsed into the cellar, but finding nothing, certainty struck him.


    The painting was gone. Someone had taken it. Whoever had been here tonight now possessed the Lazarus Spell.


    A slow exhale left him, more of a growl than a breath. He could not return to the estate now. Not with the spell unaccounted for. It was too valuable, and Reginald would stop at nothing to take it back. Stopping Reginald was the only way.


    A sound snapped him from his thoughts. Voices. Distant, but closing in. People were arriving. Neighbors, most likely, drawn by the smoke from the fire.


    His time here was done.


    He turned away from the voices, and then, without another glance, he leapt—his inhuman speed carrying him from stone to beam, from beam to treetop.


    The men on horseback arrived in time to see him standing among the embers. Then he was a shadow, flicking away and disappearing into the woods.


    Rumsfeld did not look back.


    There was only one place to go now—London.