The cellar door closed, clicking into the reinforced frame. The deadbolt thumped into place with the turn of my key. Both sides required a key, protection for my patient and myself. Below, in my laboratory, Captain Hatcher had finally succumbed to the weight of the sun. He reported that despite the subterranean location, he could intuit the exact moment the sun crested the horizon.

  Today left me with more questions than answers. The journal entries were informative but presented information from an unreliable, second-hand source. Verification and research would be needed for the claims attributed to Julien via Micah Hatcher.

  I placed the journal on my office desk and sat to consider its content. If the Blood Dominion proved to be a legitimate, undiscovered blood rite, then the Captain’s “unacknowledged” loophole could prove a brilliant strategy. Julien was a genuine threat, and my new “scalpel” had proven quite adroit in unraveling the plan. I had underestimated both Sire and Child.

  “Hubris be thy folly,” I said, quoting one of my old mentors in Boston. I resolved not to make that mistake again. My status as an exile and fugitive may have been avoidable if I had been less confident and significantly more wary. If I had simply obeyed, and picked up the scalpel when they told me to, but I couldn’t.

  William’s face, laying on that table. The restraints. The way he’d said my name.

  I banished the thought. Nothing to be gained from regret. Not when I had so much to do today.

  The matter of the horse was most pressing. The Captain’s insistence was apparent. He had not asked for information; he had all but demanded it, reprising his role as commanding officer. Be that as it may, he was correct to follow this course. The potential improvement in his effectiveness, and likely his morale, made it a worthy use of my expertise.

  Several years had passed since I had reason to study the rarest and most forbidden text in my misappropriated collection. From under the bed in my sleeping quarters, I dragged a heavy steamer trunk, ostensibly a lady’s traveling wardrobe. Beneath the stored clothes and sundry supplies, packed for the possibility of a hasty exit, I accessed the trunk’s floor. Several faux rivets slid aside, allowing me to remove the false bottom. Neatly laid flat, alphabetized, were the books and research materials I had allegedly burned before fleeing Boston.

  The Compendium of Aberrant Physiologies was a beautifully bound, heavy black text with gold leaf inlaid in the title’s lettering. This copy had been faithfully transcribed by hand from the original in the Ordo Vesalius library in London, complete with art and illuminated script. The texture of vellum and the smell of old ink brought me back to my early years in the order. I had devoured the library, enjoying every moment. Part of me yearned for that time. More recent revelations about the order spoiled the daydream.

  I turned each page carefully, reviewing the contents but moving quickly through sections not salient to the task. I had memorized the chapter on standard variants of The Affliction. Wights, or Spawn as they are commonly known, were dangerous byproducts of a true Vampire draining a human vessel completely without completing the Embrace by transferring a fraction of their own Anima sanguinely. A Wight was a creature of inverted nature; the Instinct reigned supreme while the echo of humanity remained subservient.

  I reviewed, then turned past the chapter dedicated to Thralls, sometimes called Renfields by the London Lodge. Blood-addicted servitors like the Madam in town, or the lamentable Micah Hatcher. These beings made up the vast majority of a Cabal’s network of influence. Easy to control via addiction and leverage. I needed the chapter on Sanguine Rites.

  “Ah.” I found the pages I needed. The beautiful illumination and detailed diagrams were natural companions to me, however incongruous they might appear to others. I scanned until I found the section detailing transference, energy, and binding. The script in the heading spelled out “Foedus Sanguinis.” Literally translated: Covenant of Blood. The archaic name for the Blood Bond ritual.

  Just as I had remembered, an ancient working of blood alchemy, empowered by ritualistic intent and the Anima of the party enacting the ritual. Notes written in the margin designated the ritual as heretical, even by Ordo standards.

  The practice had been performed on humans by the Ordo, but the results were labeled “unpredictable, wildly variable, unworthy of further consideration.” There were historical accounts of Vampires refining the process to create familiars they called Servires, but my texts had no additional records on the topic.

  “In Vampire kind, it requires the Master’s blood,” I read aloud, “and an act of will sufficient to force the primal vitality to link. The result is a bonded Familiar.” The text continued, describing the results of the ritual between Vampires and different creatures. I scanned the entries until I found the one I needed.

  “A Nightmare is a truly fearsome creation. The bond grants the steed preternatural strength, stamina, and speed. Such a creature is fearless and has been known to strike terror into the hearts of others. As with all Familiars, the beast and the master forge a psychic link, resulting in unified execution of the master’s intent.”

  I continued through more case studies. A scholar in Spain observed a vampiric knight and bonded steed cutting a swath through a battlefield, sending rival warhorses fleeing from their very presence. The text credited the Nightmare with felling nearly as many foes as the knight.

  “Perfect,” I whispered. A second weapon, acting in concert with the first. The Captain’s existing skillset, coupled with this enhancement to his mount, would exponentially increase his effectiveness.

  The notes stated that the ritual was dangerous and potentially fatal to the would-be Familiar, and cost the potential Master a piece of their own power, similarly to a true Embrace. This must be why the practice was rare. Vampires were loath to part with any power unless the gain was significant.

  My pulse quickened. The Captain would have a choice in the matter, but Flint would not. The horse would be transformed and inflicted with years or decades of servitude in a monstrous new form. The parallel was uncomfortably clear, but I didn’t have time to consider the sentimental ramifications. The Captain needed his mount. The decision was clear, but it didn’t sit comfortably.

  I transcribed the alchemical ingredient required to create optimal circumstances for the ritual. A Vampire only needed their blood, will, and knowledge of the process to complete the Blood Bond, but there were ways to improve the transference. Done with the aid of Ordo Vesalius’s Elixir of Binding, the connection would be strengthened, and the chances of the Familiar surviving would be notably improved.

  Something about this recipe reminded me of another. I returned to the trunk and retrieved the Advanced Primer on Alchemical Enhancement. This manual was another forbidden text I had liberated from the Boston library. There were scholars who had devoted their lives to the subject of alchemical tinctures, draughts, and elixirs. One recipe, in particular, bore striking similarity to the one I had just transcribed. “The Rite of Advancement” was less about advancement and more about ensuring loyalty. The ceremony was used for the retainers of the Ordo, supposedly to grant them protection from mystical forces. The ingredients were remarkably similar to the Elixir of Binding.

  My mind raced, considering the implications. I already knew the Vesalians were corrupt, but the underpinning alchemical concept supported a theory that had been developing for years: the Unified Curse, or Unified Anima Theory. I had amassed significant evidence that every known blood Affliction had roots in the same dark alchemy. The Strauss clan of lycanthropes, I’d read the Ordo depictions many times, with their forced shape-shifting bore considerable similarity to the rumored abilities of the Combine vampiric Cabal, which was said to master willful shape-shifting. However, reports stated they were bats, not wolves. Just as the Elixir of Binding and the draught used in the Rite of Advancement were analogous, so too were the shape-shifters. All perversions of the Anima. This discovery was more evidence proving my theory.

  And if they were all linked... My hand shook at the implications. If they are connected, one can be a vector for the other. If I could understand this ritual and the Anima more fully, I may be able to engineer a cure for my family. The Elixir of Binding was more accurately an Elixir of Transference. With this recipe and a potent enough catalyst component, it may be possible to transfer more than psychic resonance. This would require significant research.

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  I closed my journal after jotting down a few notes. My plan was forming. First, I needed to tend to daylight activities, which would require attentiveness. I packed up the hidden library, tucking it away, and lay down for a short nap. Sleep didn’t come easily. My mind wouldn’t slow down. Eventually, I drifted off and slept dreamlessly.

  Morning came too early. Upon rising, I grabbed my satchel and donned my bonnet, assuming the mantle of the “unassuming town physician.” The sun, my ally, was well into the sky.

  Cinder Creek was barely a town, a muddy scar in the forest where ambition had outpaced civilization. The main street was a rutted mess of churned earth and horse droppings, flanked by false-fronted buildings that promised more than they delivered. A general store, two saloons, and a church that doubled as the schoolhouse. The whole place smelled of sawdust, manure, and the sap bleeding from fresh-cut timber.

  It was a perfect petri dish of greed and desperation, making it the ideal birthplace for Vane’s bid for independence. My first task was to confirm targets hinted at in Micah’s journal. We needed to know the lay of the land to formulate a plan. I had my suspicions as well. Time to gather information in earnest.

  In the guise of mundane errands, I made my way past the Gilded Lily saloon. Late morning, and the place already hummed with business. Customers came and went; some for a quick drink, others staying longer to avail themselves of the full services of the staff. The saloon had gambling tables in back, a brothel upstairs, and food and drink up front.

  Through oversized front windows, the proprietor stood, Madam Evangeline. She was draped in silks that would impress a frontier audience and wore makeup fit for a stage act. Despite her garish appearance, her eyes missed nothing, and her painted-on smile never faltered. She spoke to the bank manager, casually touching his hand to punctuate a witty remark. The man didn’t have a chance. She was a spider, and he had walked into her web.

  He smiled and swayed slightly, laughing at her joke. He leaned in and said something conspiratorially, prompting an exaggerated laugh and tsking gesture from the Madam.

  I had witnessed this dozens of times. Her charisma was unnatural. Men left her presence seemingly intoxicated, with dilated pupils, slowed or slurring speech. She was the key social hub of Vane’s network and made no effort to conceal their connection. The easiest target to identify. The cancer would need to be removed.

  Next, I stopped at the Apothecary, my reasons twofold. Lin Mei’s shop was across the street from the sheriff’s office, giving me a good vantage, and she’d likely have the ingredients I lacked for the Elixir of Binding. I entered the shop and exchanged smiles with Mei. I was one of her regular customers, and we occasionally took tea together. There aren’t many people to talk to in a place like Cinder Creek if you’re an educated woman.

  “Hello, Doctor Foss,” she greeted me warmly. “I haven’t seen you in a few days.” She wore a utilitarian tangzhuang work jacket with a long dark dress. A tan leather apron covered the clothes, protecting them from her work.

  “Yes, I’ve had several things crop up, requiring my attention. It’s good to see you, Miss Mei.” I handed her the list: one pound of cinnabar, two ounces of dried aconite, a one-ounce vial of silver nitrate, and one pint of laudanum.

  Mei read through the list, nodding at each item in turn. Her eyes widened slightly at the last item. “This is a large sum of sedative.” A question without asking.

  “Yes, it is.” Amusement touched my voice. “I will be sedating a large horse for a procedure, and the cost is not an issue for the client.” I shrugged.

  “Of course.” She went about the business of measuring and packaging my order. I took the opportunity to position myself near the window, feigning examination of herbs hung up to dry.

  Across the way, Sheriff Brody sat at his desk, head in his hands. The man looked perpetually stressed. He was a former bounty hunter that Vane had hired or pressured into taking up the badge when the old sheriff had gone mysteriously missing.

  That had been a few years back. His son had worked by his side before he settled in Cinder Creek. Now, his son’s lack of discretion was the town’s worst-kept secret. If I waited long enough, I knew he would turn up.

  Before long, a tall woman wearing men’s clothes, with a long pheasant feather in her hatband, rode up to the hitching post. Slung across the back of her horse was Jerimiah Brody, the sheriff’s son. The woman was the new deputy, hired in the winter. I had never met her, but she was the talk of the town when she showed up. Joanna Clay was her name, and she had purportedly been a tracker for the army in the Plains Wars. Nothing disputed the claim. On the contrary, watching her over the last few months, I determined she was dangerous. She saw too much and could become a problem in the future.

  The sheriff ambled out of the office and helped his son down from the horse. The young man nearly collapsed when his feet hit the ground, but his father yarded him up. Jeremiah was sloppy drunk and had some choice words for the deputy. Given his slurring, I couldn’t make out what he was saying through the window, but he was not pleased with his treatment. Deputy Clay didn’t pay him any mind, and the sheriff helped his son into the office.

  Most days, some variation of this scene played out. Oftentimes, the youth stumbled back from the Gilded Lily, but occasionally he had to be picked up. The story always ended the same. He would sleep it off in the back room and start again the next night.

  Madam Evangeline had her hooks into the son, but Vane owned the sheriff. Gambling debt, inflated unpaid tabs at the saloon, or other lies, it didn’t matter in the end. The sheriff’s son was leverage, and the man didn’t have the strength to deal with it on his own. If nothing else, the sheriff and his deputy would need to be removed as adversaries by extracting them from Vane’s control. The son was the vector.

  Mei bundled up my order, and I put it away in my satchel. The bill was fifteen dollars, enough to pay a man’s wage for two weeks, but this would provide us with extra supplies for future use. The Captain’s funds were in no danger of being depleted.

  My final task was to look into the other factors at work. I continued my rounds, stopping at the mercantiles to pick up some groceries, because I still had to eat. I stopped to check in on a few former patients, to keep up my image around town.

  I walked past the new survey office for the Central Pacific Railroad. The newspaper claimed they would build tracks heading to Cinder Creek. Now that they had connected the coasts, they would build routes branching in all directions. I wasn’t sure how to feel about that. Cinder Creek was intentionally far from my problems. The railroad didn’t quite make it to town yet, but it was on the way, coming from San Francisco.

  A group of well-dressed men stood outside, ostensibly reading charts. Their clothes looked new, their boots pristine and shining. They all had repeating rifles, similar to the one Deputy Clay carried wherever she went. They weren’t local to Cinder Creek. Too organized and too clean. Their leader was a tall man with inquisitive eyes. He watched me pass. No leer, no challenge. Just the quiet attention of money deciding what something was worth.

  This was the vanguard of The Pacific Combine. These men were employed by, if not enthralled to, the other significant Vampire faction in the region. They didn’t seem to respect Vane’s claim to the title of Sovereign of Cinder Creek, as evidenced by these men boldly setting up their office.

  The Combine didn’t believe in archaic titles or the sanctity of bloodright. They believed that industry was the true claim on territory. If they developed rails, telegraph lines, roads, and civilization, they were the territory’s rulers. Vane was a feudal relic, and they were here to foreclose.

  My paranoia flared. Were any of these men associated with the Golden Gate Lodge of the Ordo Vesalius? Could the two groups be working together? I scanned them, searching for signs: a compass and scalpel pin, coded phrases in their conversations. Nothing. That could be a reason for relief, but I didn’t have enough information to reach a meaningful conclusion.

  I left the area, not wanting to draw their attention, and returned to my clinic. I locked the heavy front door and closed the curtains. Dusk would come soon, and I had much to do. My mind raced as I considered the factors at play. This valley was primed for war, and we weren’t ready. The only thing we still had was anonymity.

  I gathered the items I would need for the alchemical process: a silver bowl, an athame dagger, and the Compendium itself. I unbolted the cellar door and descended the stairs.

  He was waiting for me, bearing no resemblance to the broken thing I’d found in the ashes, nor the starving wretch who’d trembled against my restraints. He stood with a soldier’s bearing, spine straight, shoulders set, hands loose at his sides, but there was nothing relaxed in that stillness. His angular face gave nothing away, the old saber scar pale against skin that had lost its living warmth, and his eyes tracked my descent the way a rifle tracks movement. The monster was leashed. I was less certain about the man holding the chain.

  “You have a plan for Flint.” Not a question. His tone wasn’t a demand but confidence. He knew I could solve his problem.

  “I do, but there are risks that I need to explain.” I descended the final steps, holding up the book. “It’s a heretical ritual, recorded by the Ordo Vesalius, based on unverified texts and historical accounts. It’s incredibly dangerous.”

  Our eyes met. His determination was visible, his focus palpable.

  “The ritual will forge a permanent supernatural bond between your Anima and his. It will transform Flint into a Nightmare.” I paused to let my words sink in. “It could kill him, or drive you mad in the process, but I have a potential solution. We can begin preparations when you are ready.”