‘Wait,’ I say, while Aar scowls beside me, 'you told us you crossed their path and they messed you up real bad. What was that all about?’

Rasthrum removes his gloves. Now I see why he wears them. His hands aren’t hands at all; they’re basically claws. And they’re branded claws. There’s a little contortion on each thumb, shaped somewhat like some bird. A raven, unless I'm mistaken.

‘Uh, I’d rather you keep them on,' says Aar, his scowl converting into what looks like a frown. The kind of frown you make when your teacher passes gas in the middle of explaining a vital topic. You feel sorry for them, sure, but then slowly the smell reaches your nostrils and you lose all sense of worldly wisdom.

Rasthrum ignores him. ‘Wake your Uncle,' he orders.

I do so. Mr. Om is up and at it sooner than you could say “rise and shine”. And suddenly I’m reminded of all the time I spent in his mansion, all the times he used to keep me company when no one else would. Before I had Aar and Bee, I only had him. Well, him and Es, but let’s just count real people here. Whelps. No time to think of all that now. (Besides, the corner where he sleeps stinks so badly of cabbage, I can’t stand there a second longer.)

While I’m stirring Mr. Om up, Bee gets up, too. Well, the more the merrier.

‘What’d you wake me up for?’ Mr. Om asks. There’s a sense of alarm in his tone. ‘Are we there?’

Before my mouth is even open, Aar hops in, making use of all his acting acumen: 'Yeah, those witches. They kidnapped Es.’

Have you ever seen magic, kids? Well, here it is: all color disappears from Mr. Om's face in an abra-snap-cadabra gilly-gilly-whoosh.

For a microsecond I’m worried as well, until I see the expression on Aar's face. He’s just clowning around. Call me sadistic, but I can’t say I don’t enjoy seeing Mr. Om like this. After all, he’s the reason why my life is the way it is.

Mr. Om's at a loss of words. ‘I . . . what . . . how, when did this happen? What are you sniggering at, Mar?’

As if on cue, Es drifts into the carriage, not a care in the world, singing a melody she has no doubt composed while she gave Saayu company.

Mr. Om looks at her, then at me, then at Aar. ‘That is not funny!’

Aar and I high-five. Bee crosses her arms and shakes her head like she’s surrounded by complete imbeciles. Es doesn’t realize what’s going on, but doesn’t ask it either – which is very much unlike her. She’s just hovering in a corner, humming her tune. Ever since that entanglement – if that’s what we want to call it – between us, she seems reserved. Detached. Did we do something wrong or break some spirit laws or whatever?

‘Quit it,' Rasthrum calls out, and it’s a struggle for me to snatch my eyes away from a humming Es. ‘We don’t have much time left.’

That’s when Mr. Om spots his ungloved hands – claws – and the little birds on the thumbs. Rasthrum’s lips twitch; dare I say he looks like he’s going to smile?

'That's . . . ‘ Mr. Om takes a step back, and I don’t think he realizes that. ‘You are . . .’

‘I am,' says Rasthrum easily.

Okay, so how my Unc – I mean, Mr. Om looked like when we joked about Es's abduction is nothing compared to what he looks like right now. It’s like he just realized he’s jumping off a cliff or something.

‘I’ll explain everything,' and so the tale of the survivor-vampire man begins. (Aar requests him to put his gloves on while he’s at it.)

‘Have you heard of what they call Lakoswanion?’ Rasthrum asks.

‘The City of A Hundred Haunts,' Bee answers at once, just the way she answers to teachers in class. Gosh, it’s almost a reflex for her. It is a miracle she didn’t raise her hand prior to answering.

‘Do you know where it got the name? The story behind it?’

‘Yes, there was an old warlock with an army of farmers and - '

I shut her up before she can go on about a tirade, reciting the whole thing like a page from a book she’d mugged. ‘Yeah, yeah, we all know, Bee. Let him talk.’

(You remember, right? I think Aar must’ve told you before.)

‘Good,' says Rasthrum. ‘Now, no one knows a most crucial portion of that story because it’s been kept from them all. Even the natives. The Coven once called the warlock for negotiation when even their relentless scares did nothing to drive him away from the city.

‘And so the warlock went to meet the Grahi Witch, alone. Now, he was well-versed in the lore of wizardry himself, and would not let her get the better of him. So he left the negotiation, changing nothing. Except . . . I don’t know how to say this part.’

‘With your mouth,' Aar recommends. 'Es, give this man a lesson on how to speak.’

Es turns to face us, her face lacking its usual glow. ‘Like this,’ she says, and starts moving her three-fourth transparent jaw up and down, up and down, and this side, and that side, the colored-marker delineate around her shifting continuously.

Aar snickers. Bee gives him the stare. I’m with her on this one. If we are as close to the Witches’ domain as Rasthrum's tone suggests we are, then we have no time to squander. Aar mutters a quick, half-hearted apology and Rasthrum resumes.

'Well, the warlock and the Grahi Witch did more than just parley. Because nine days after their conclave, the former found herself carrying the warlock's seed.’

Silence. An uncomfortable one.

Then (you know how Aar is): 'Uhhhhh . . . so they, like, had a child?’

‘Yes,' Rasthrum promptly brushes it off, visibly embarrassed. ‘They did. But the warlock denied having fathered any children, let alone with his own enemy. Hundred and one days later, I was born.’

‘Hundred and one?’ Bee says. ‘You’re mistaken. It is supposed to be nine months.’

‘I know what is supposed to be and not supposed, girl,' Rasthrum rebukes. In his annoyance, the last word comes out as gurrrl. He starts spitting out words instead of speaking them. ‘You know nothing, none of you! I trained for years and yet could hardly make them bleed! How are you going to face them like this, huh?’

Another silence. A longer, heavier one.

‘Then help us,' I say at last.

Rasthrum’s lips twitch and what happens next happens way too fast for my eyes to register. All I know is, the muscular guy first lunges at Aar, and I see something shiny moving at the velocity of light – and the next moment there Rasthrum is, right in front of me, holding the bronze shuriken to my throat.

'You don't know anything, kid. You are already dead.’

My skin starts crawling and tripping over itself. This is the same thing the Grahi Witch had said to me earlier.

Poor soul, you do not know. You are dead already.

Like mother, like son.

'Well, then I've got nothing left to lose.'

I gulp, feeling the press of the star-shaped weapon against my Adam's apple (mine is pretty prominent; funny how I never mentioned that).

Come on, Mar. If you’re scared of him, what’ll you do when the real danger comes walking?

(gossamer realm, leaf of elm . . . )

I tense my jaw. ‘Teach us, man. I swear on blood, I will do everything in my power to thwart those hags.'

I am well-neigh surprised by intensity of my own voice. If I had not spoken the words, I wouldn’t believe I was the one who uttered them.

Rasthrum cocks his head sideways. The coerce against my throat increases, but when I don’t show any signs of fear, the shuriken recedes, relieving me greatly. I impede a very strong urge to exhale and slip to my knees with the delicate grace of a dancer who’s danced too long. I fix a strong gaze on the man.

‘Fine,' Rasthrum spits. ‘I will tell you what I know. And maybe – just maybe – you’ll stand a chance of getting away from the Coven alive.’

Now that I am not under the threat of getting my throat slit, I can hear Es's humming again.

Then I hear Rasthrum muttering, quite audibly, under his breath, while he puts his goggles back on: 'This is a mistake.’

Yeah. Just like you were.